


The Phase of the Moon

by ThoughtaThought



Series: BuffyPhanfic [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: #BAMF, #rad, #vibes, Betaed, Bringers, Buffy Season 7, Buffy the Vampire Slayer References, Buffyverse - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Christmas episode, Crescent Moon, Demons, Dream Symbolism, Flower Symbolism, Full Moon, Gen, Gibbous Moon, Goats, Harbingers of Death, Hella Betaed, I did so much research to make this canon compliant guys, I had like 5 people read through this, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Julbock, Lapis Lazuli - Freeform, Minor Character Death(s), Minor Character(s), Moon, Moon symbolism, Motherfucking Moon, Passion of the Nerd, Petunias, Phandom Reverse Bang, Phandom Reverse Bang 2020, Phases of the Moon, Potential Slayers - Freeform, Premonitions, Prophetic Dreams, Quarter Moon, Reverse Bang, Roses, Snowdrops, Stone Symbolism, The First Evil - Freeform, The moon is Fucking Important, Vampire!Dan, Vampires, Watcher!Phil, Witch!Phil, extra symbolism, for content and technical reasons, like hella extra symbolism, new moon, solar eclipse, something wicked this way comes - Freeform, the first - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtaThought/pseuds/ThoughtaThought
Summary: Phil Lester is just your typical 15 year old boy. Who is training to help the Slayer fight vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness. Then he starts having dreams of strange symbols and a (totally not attractive) vampire. Explosions and ghosts and creepy guys in cloaks show up and ruin multiple days.Aka: If Phan existed in the Buffyverse and Dan was a vampire.*Prior knowledge of Buffy or Phandom is NOT REQUIRED to understand and enjoy this fic. (But you should def watch Buffy andhere's why<3)
Relationships: Cornelia Dahlgren & Martyn Lester, Dan Howell & Phil Lester
Series: BuffyPhanfic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839820
Comments: 63
Kudos: 17
Collections: Phandom Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Full Moon: Somthing Wicked This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> This was truly a labour of love from me. I love Phan, Buffy, and the Moon and I got to nerd out and do all kinds of research for this. The notes are going to be a mess (probably), though I’ll leave the references and such to the notes at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> [Artist](http://nebulaearecool.tumblr.com): Asher is the amazing human responsible for the art in this story. So inspiring (literally inspired this work of fiction) 
> 
> Betas:  
> Thank you to my incredible team of betas. This fic would not be half as amazing without your diligent help. 
> 
> Thank you [Ky](http://enby-lego-dinosaur.tumblr.com) for being my right hand in editing this fic and listening to me gush about my triumphs and complain about my struggles. (Also for fixing my punctuation surrounding quotations… there were a lot of those). 
> 
> Thank you to [Simon](https://mobile.twitter.com/SimonAndrs) for being a content/continuity editor on the Buffy side of things. He really helped add to the quality of the content by making suggestions based in Buffy lore.  
> Thank you to [Manasi](http://holyjesusonatricycle.tumblr.com) for being awesome and also making sure the story made sense without prior knowledge of Buffy. 
> 
> Thank you to [Beth](http://ilikestopwatches.tumblr.com) for britpicking and just being an absolutely amazing human being. (and for correcting my random switches between past and present tense… there were also a lot of those). 
> 
> And finally, to my mom, who was my content beta to make sure it made sense to someone who is unfamiliar with both Buffy and Phan. I love you for everything you do for me and thank you for listening to me rant about everything despite having little interest in the works and people who inspired my writing. You're the best. P. S. thanks for giving birth to me.

Near Manchester

November 20-22, 2002

_Phil’s footsteps echo against the walls as he makes his way through the empty space. He reaches out to find a wall in the darkness, hoping to steady his feet as he wanders blindly. His hand brushes against rough concrete, worn by wind and rain. His fingers find a deep divot in the artificial stone and suddenly the walls are glowing, covered in red symbols that are simple in construction, but pulse with deadly power that turns the air thick as smoke. Phil tries to cough, but the air he’s inhaled sticks in his lungs, coating his windpipe in thick, black sludge and he can’t breathe._

_He lifts his eyes to look for a way out. He’s in an enclosed hallway, the walls and ceilings feel like they’re closing in, the glowing symbols brighten and dim with his heartbeat, picking up speed as his fingers claw at his throat. There’s a door at the end of the hallway and white light peeks through the windows. He races toward it, stumbling over the uneven ground. His legs feel like lead, or like something’s grabbing at his ankles to slow him down. He tears his eyes away from the light of the door when he trips over something and he can’t breathe for an entirely new set of reasons._

_His eyes drag down the hallway floor and along his entire path there are hands, arms, and fingers pushing their way up through the dirt and clawing at the surface for purchase. A girl with ringlet curls falling across her face is struggling against their hold. A crossbow is pulled from her hands, but she’s swiping at them with a knife as they pull her into the ground. His body freezes up for a second, but that’s all it takes for hot fingers to claw around his ankles and calves and start pulling._

_He struggles frantically against them, attempting to jump and kick them out of the way, but they don’t let go and he feels himself sinking into the dirt with them. He looks up in time to see one of the hands twist the girl’s wrist and drive her own knife through her heart. She falls limp and disappears into the ground. His flesh feels like it’s burning everywhere they touch. They’re grabbing at his shirt and he flails his arms about, trying to find some purchase anywhere to keep himself from sinking underground._

_Cool fingers wrap around his wrist from above. He grabs their wrist in return and the hands trying to pull him under fall away as he is pulled up and out._

_Phil’s converse smack against the concrete as he runs down a city street. Dark alleys shudder with shadows and billboards shine. Ahead of him, he sees a familiar face. His protector reaches out and he’s extending his arm toward them when a hooded figure steps up behind them. Phil tries to call out to them, but a curved knife glints in the artificial light and finds its home in their back. Phil watches the life fade from their eyes, then he trips on a crack in the pavement-_

_-and falls into white snow._

_“Phil?” He looks up to see Annabelle standing next to the statue of an angel. She’s pale in the moonlight. Her face opens with fear and then she’s running away, toward the treeline. Phil stands and tries to run after her but, as soon as she makes it a couple steps into the forest, she trips. Where she falls, the ground swallows her whole. Phil turns and his surroundings shimmer, shifting into a new landscape._

_He walks through a dark graveyard. Some tombstones crumble with age and others glint, brand new, under the bright light of the moon. The sound of his feet is muffled by overgrown grass. Crickets sing. An owl hoots. There’s a squirrel in a tophat that lifts a monocle to his eye. A twig snaps and Phil turns to find himself on the banks of a lake. Wind whispers across the water and breathes cool air against his face, but the surface is still. It reflects everything surrounding it. Willow trees whose branches kiss the water’s edge, pine trees standing tall and straight, blinking stars shining brightly against the black sky, and the full moon. It’s a brilliant white and looks larger than usual where it hangs low in the sky._

_His eyes, that have been fixed on the surface of the lake and all it reflects, are pulled upward by a fluttering shadow on the opposite bank. The man is tall and despite how far away he is, Phil can make out every detail of him as if he were standing just inches away. His clothing is old, but shows no signs of age or wear. The cape that flutters from his shoulders had caught Phil’s eye, but now he is enthralled by the soft, delicate features of his face. His subtle jawline, free of tension below high cheekbones that accent the space from his nose to his ears._

_His head is haloed by soft, chocolate curls that glow chestnut around the edges with the light of the moon at his back. In the man’s hand is a red rose, which he raises up, but as it comes before his face, the petals begin to fall from the stem and float away like they are lighter than a dandelion’s seeds. Phil’s eyes follow their path until they disappear into the darkness of night surrounding him on all sides._

_He blinks and he’s stood in his parents' living room, but he can’t focus on any details save one: a tipped cup on the seat of their white sofa, stained brown by spilled tea that has long since soaked in and dried. When he tries to lift his eyes from the spot his vision swims in a bloody red that makes his head begin to ache. He shuts his eyes against it…_

And opens them to be met with the textured ceiling above his bed. Why the painters thought that popcorn texture was a viable, respectable option for any ceiling is beyond Phil, but decisions had been made and some of those decisions were mistakes. Speaking of mistakes… Phil’s hands went to his completely flat chest and… yup. He’d fallen asleep in his binder again. Which means that, for the sake of his health, he really shouldn’t wear it today. His lungs and ribcage will thank him, but his brain is going to be quite rude about it. 

That dream… Phil rarely has dreams that are so coherent and vivid. There was an undercurrent of feeling that was almost too real to be just a dream. Except for the squirrel bit. That squirrel doesn’t belong outside of the dream world. 

Not to mention that he had been having variations on this exact dream for the past week (at least twice before this time, but he doesn’t always remember his dreams). He needs to call up Grandma Dorothy and get together with her to have another long talk about symbolism and inherited prophetic tendencies and all that. His grandma is amazing, one of the best witches in the greater Manchester area. She’s the person Watchers with witch problems go to. She’s overseeing his own sporadic practice with the craft. Overseeing because Phil’s father refuses to allow him to officially apprentice with a witch. 

Phil hadn’t disagreed when his father had insisted that being a Watcher was a more worthy pursuit. Researching demonology and training Slayers seemed more productive than ‘that mumbo jumbo your mother believes in'. Granted, that’s because being a witch is usually a thing that women do and Phil was in that headspace where he intensely denied all things feminine, especially in relation to himself. But now he’s starting to think that having a bit more experience would help alleviate the sinking feeling in his chest every time he sees that spilled cup of tea….

Yeah, he definitely needs to call his grandma. And maybe dedicate his upcoming winter break to witchcraft. His dad won’t be happy, and the idea of taking up a role that is traditionally relegated to women still twinges a bit, but he needs to understand these dreams, so he’s just going to have to get over himself and these restrictive hangups he still has about his gender. 

~~*~~

Phil plans to meet with his grandma Friday after school and he could not be more relieved. The dreams have really stepped up their game since he first called her. His mum had already taken a suitcase over to her house in preparation for his weekend-long toe-dip into witchcraft. They’re going to use that time to assess Phil’s abilities and to determine the exact nature of Phil’s dreams. Phil already knows that a weekend is not going to be enough.

Annabelle and Anja will be chauffeuring him to his grandma’s house. They come over for dinner, then hang out in Phil’s room. He thinks about telling Annabelle about her presence in his dreams, but dismisses it. Hopefully his brain just picked her face at random. If not, then… he doesn’t want to think about the implications of his Potentially prophetic dream. Phil plays Sonic with Anja while Annabelle reads whatever novel she's into this week. 

They are ordered to keep the door open as a deterrent against any ‘funny business',which is hilarious to Phil. It’s a rule for when Martyn has friends over as well (especially of the female variety), but Annabelle is literally the straightest human Phil has ever met and Anja’s great, but more interested in destroying Phil in every video game they play. Also, the thing that Kath is trying to prevent with the open door policy? Not physically possible. Phil chuckles to himself all evening about it. It’s dark out when Anja announces that she’s ready to leave and Annabelle helps drag Phil out of the house.

Anja lives a few blocks down from Grandma Dorothy, and Annabelle’s staying over at hers tonight, so it makes sense that they should all walk together. He’s honestly so out of it that he wouldn’t be surprised if his mum and grandma had asked the girls to make sure he got there safely. His sense of direction has never been the best and, as he’s currently struggling to keep his eyes open, he’s much more likely than usual to run into a tree or lamp post or fence or another human. 

“You alright Fi-Phil?” Annabelle always stumbles a bit over his name. She didn’t used to, before it changed. Phil gets it, but it still makes the skin between his shoulder blades prickle. He shakes it off and pushes a smile in her direction.

“Yeah, just tired.” The toe of his converse catches on the air in front of him and he stumbles a bit. Annabelle grabs his wrist, which just sort of makes his body twist mid-fall but he doesn’t go down. Her eyes are probing, chin tilted up and eyebrows furrowed. He feels Anja’s hand come to rest against his shoulder blade.

“The nightmares?” she asks, her face soft with sympathy. Phil nods. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose and sighs. His scalp feels tight against his skull and tiredness makes his eyelids feel like they’re scraping against his eyeballs. His mousy ginger roots are growing in and his preferred black hair dye has dulled. He spent the last two weeks feeling like a disheveled emo nerd, but he doesn’t have the energy to care about that. He just wants these dreams to stop so he can sleep. His chest feels tight from one too many nights passing out in his binder, which currently feels itchy and too tight, so he sucks in a big breath and scratches at his ribs as they walk. 

A shadow flits in his periphery from across the street and he turns in time to see a figure disappear between houses. He stops and looks, trying to get his eyes to focus through his weariness. The moon is on the horizon, hiding behind houses and trees, not yet bright enough to adequately illuminate their surroundings. 

Annabelle pulls on his wrist, which she still has a hold of, and Phil reluctantly pulls his eyes back to the path in front of him as they start walking again. He blinks hard and shakes his head, trying to keep his eyes open and his mind alert in case shadowy figures with bad intentions decide to make a move. 

Annabelle knocks and Dorothy opens the door. Her face stretches into a smile.

“Annabelle! Anja! And Philip, love!” She pulls him across the threshold and into her arms, petting his hair and holding him tight. Grandma Dorothy’s house always feels peaceful. Phil breathes in and immediately feels calmer. His mind quiets and his eyelids take longer to blink open. They separate and Dorothy repeats the process with Annabelle, then Anja.

“Shoes and jacket off, young man,” Dorothy smiles with a gesture at the shoe rack in the entryway, then turns to Anja, “I’ll just go grab the bag of things your mother asked for. Do you need someone to see you home?” 

“No, thank you,” Anja says with a smile. “Actually, could I use the loo before we go?” 

“Of course, dear,” Dorothy says, and shows her down the hall. She turns back just as she’s about to disappear into the kitchen, “Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable in the lounge. I’ll be back before you can say biscuits!” They head into the lounge. Once they’re out of sight, Annabelle tugs on the hem of Phil’s shirt. 

“Is your grandmum really a witch?” she says in a hushed whisper. Phil laughs (it definitely sounds forced). 

“Of course not.” He huffs a (hopefully more genuine sounding) laugh. “She’s just really into that new age crystal and herb… stuff.” 

Annabelle looks at him and nods before moving over to explore the dusty bookshelf in the corner. Phil finds a spot on the sofa to plop into and lets his head fall back and his eyes close. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in weeks. He remembers this feeling of security and serenity washing over him every time he enters his grandma’s house, but it’s like he forgets what it feels like until he’s back here again. Phil hears Annabelle pull a book from the shelf, the soft ruffling of paper as she flips through its pages.

“You’re grandmum’s got some weird-” Annabelle squeaks and Phil’s eyes fly open just as the book she was holding thuds to the floor. They both stare at it’s ink-filled pages, wide-eyed, then look up in sync.

“What just-”

“The bloody letters changed!” Annabelle says without blinking, eyes flicking between the book and Phil. “One second it was some weird language, then they just- Phil they, like, flickered or something then they were in English!” 

Phil stares at her as her eyes keep skipping from him to the book. _What-_

“Ready to go, Annabelle?” Anja asks from the entryway. “Mum called Dorothy to make sure we were on our way, so we really should be heading out.”

“You’re sure you girls don’t want to join us for tea and biscuits?” Dorothy asks, loaded tea tray in hand.

“Oh, thank you Mrs. Stryker, but you know how my mum worries.” Anja’s eyes pinch with a close-mouthed smile. “Come along, Annabelle.” 

“But- the book-” Annabelle points and Anja’s eyes briefly flick to the pages.

“Very nice, but-” Anja huffs, “-there’s popcorn popping and gossip just waiting to be had.” Annabelle gives Phil, the book, then Dorothy a sceptical look.

“Yeah, alright,” she says, before scuttling toward the front door, rushing past Anja. 

“Good night, ladies! Be safe!” Dorothy calls after them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stryker!” Anja chirps back. The door closes and Phil’s eyes flick back to the book that’s still open on the floor. 

Phil stares at the space where Annabelle disappeared as his grandma places the tea tray in front of him and settles on the chair at the head of the coffee table. 

“So, dreams,” Dorothy says, causing Phil’s eyes to snap to her as she pours hot water into their cups, “They’re tricky things. You could have a symbolic portrayal of the _kinds_ of things that will happen, a literal snippet of something that has yet to pass, and your regular dream-type nonsense, all smushed together in a jumble. It might take some time to work through what is what.” 

Phil nods distractedly, because that’s about all he feels he can do. 

His eyes drift over all the trinkets and crystals scattered across bookshelves and side tables. They almost seem to vibrate, but that’s not quite right. They aren’t moving, but there’s a kind of distortion around them. Like asphalt under the hot sun making it look like there’s water on the pavement or the space above a fire where the landscape behind it looks like it’s rippling through the heat. 

The aircon switches on with a whirl and Phil can see the dried herbs flickering next to the vents, but the distortion radiating from the crystals sitting under them doesn’t stutter. _Of course it doesn’t. The crystals aren’t actually hot. Why would the crystals be hot? Why do the crystals look like they’re hot?_

“Oh,” Dorothy says, “You see it too?” Phil’s eyes snap to his grandma.

“What?” 

“That’s their magic,” she says like it’s a totally normal thing to say. “It was a full moon last night, so I left them out to charge.” 

“To charge?” Phil’s eyes drift back to the calming ripples around the crystals. 

“Of course,” Dorothy says, handing Phil a cup. “Milk and two sugars.” Phil takes a sip. It’s not tea, it’s coffee. And that’s exactly how he likes his coffee.

“How did you-” Phil looks up to see Dorothy wiggling her fingers through the air between them.

“Magic.” She smiles as she prepares her own cup, then giggles at the look on Phil’s face, “Your mother told me, love. I occasionally ask after you.” Phil snaps his jaw shut. Of course she does. Of _course_ she does. Phil’s her only grand- was her only granddaughter. Now he’s just her youngest grandchild. It’s not really a downgrade, but sometimes it feels… like he’s disappointed her by turning out to be a guy. 

No, that’s not quite right. _No, that’s exactly right. I’m a_ guy _. Stop second guessing yourself._

Phil inhales the steam wafting up from his perfect coffee, but his gaze drifts back to the crystals. Dorothy follows his gaze.

“Are any of them putting off more magic than the others?” Phil looks, but everything’s muddled from this far away. His body moves on its own, not toward the table under the dried herbs that he’s been staring at, but to the bookshelf that Annabelle had gone to, nestled in a corner. He bends to pick the book off the floor on his way over. There’s a layer of dust on the shelves and covering the books, but there’s a clean line where Annabelle retrieved the book. 

Phil feels a whisper against his mind, then his eyes land on the rough stone behind the books. He reaches out and brushes the tip of a finger against the surface before pulling it out. It’s brilliant blue colour is distorting the air around it more than the other crystals, but it feels like a regular stone. There’s no zing or spark when he touches it. He’s honestly a bit disappointed. He taps it gently on the leather of the book in his arms, looking down at its cover, then drops the book and hops back with a (very manly, thank you very much) squeak. 

“What is it?” Dorothy has a hand on his elbow in a second, gazing down at the book that Phil just tossed away. 

“That symbol...” Phil points at the cover of the book, as though he needed to clarify. “What is it? What- it was the one I touched in my dream before-” His hands turn to claws and he scratches and grabs at the air as he contorts his face into a snarl. 

Dorothy picks the book up from the floor and Phil immediately takes a step back, something inside him being very opposed to the idea of being anywhere near that symbol. Phil should probably be sceptical of that feeling. His father would be, but his father doesn’t put much weight on feelings and symbols and crystals and dreams, and while Phil would have agreed with him at the beginning of the year, he’s been presented with a very persistent and very consistent dream that has made him rethink his position. 

Dorothy opens the book and the leather spine cracks. Phil peeks over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse at the words. They’re in black ink that looks intimidating and too rigid.

“It’s blank,” Dorothy mutters. “That’s odd.” 

Phil is too stunned to speak. He looks back at the page and- yeah, no, there’s definitely words there. _What the fuck?_ He makes grabby hands toward the book and Dorothy hands it over with what is probably a very confused look, but Phil can’t be bothered with trying to explain because he needs to read this book right now. He flips through it until he gets frustrated by the unbroken blocks of text filling each page and flips back to the front, hoping for an index of some kind. 

His prayers are answered and he skims through the list of chapters and page numbers before his eyes catch on one phrase

“What are the Harbingers of Death?” Phil can feel his face scrunch up. “They don’t sound very nice.” 

“What?” 

“The Harbingers of Death,” Phil says distractedly, finger tracing over the ink. “A lot of these sections seem to be descriptors: abilities, appearance, stuff like that, then there’s a section called ‘the Harbingers of Death’ and it’s so different from the rest of the sections that it caught my eye- hey are you okay?”

Dorothy reaches back for the arm of the chair behind her and sits- well, collapses-down onto the cushions with a hand just below her ribcage. Phil sets the book on the coffee table as he rushes to her side. 

“Grandma Dorothy-”

“Rupert,” Dorothy says. “I need to call Rupert Giles.” Phil fetches the phone.

Mr. Giles comes over pretty quickly and Dorothy sends Phil to bed. He can hear them talking in hushed voices through the vents. Then they chant and recite and Phil shivers under the quilt in the spare room. He stares at the blue stone on the nightstand, watching the air around it ripple with unfelt heat. 

Magic. 

The unseen and unknown feeling of it is simultaneously reassuring and terrifying. For instance, the stone he’s staring at is acting like aloe on the burns of his sleepless nights. He watches it distort the air around it and each breath feels cleaner, each anxiety feels smaller. At the same time, he’s freaking out because he’s looking at a rock and it’s doing _something_ to him. 

He picks the stone up and shifts onto his back, twirling it around above his chest. His fingers become familiar with the texture and the dents, while he stares at the ceiling. It’s got a spiky texture. At least it’s not popcorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Watcher](https://buffy.fandom.com/wiki/Watcher): the title given to a member of the Watchers Council, devoted to studying, tracking, and combating malevolent supernatural entities, doing so through a Watcher assigned to train and guide the Slayer. 
> 
> Things I googled for this chapter:  
> Emo style 2002  
> Cell phones 2002  
> Purple McDonald’s guy (didn’t end up using this info, but his name is Grimace, which, accurate)
> 
> Resources used:  
> #selfcare (the app from which I pulled the one word meaning of each phase of the moon 10/10 it’s a great ap)  
> [Lapis Lazuli](https://www.charmsoflight.com/lapis-lazuli-healing-properties)  
> [New vs. Full Moon](https://www.moonglow.com/blogs/shoot-for-the-moon-blog/full-moon-new-moon-jewelry-which-matches-your-personality)  
> [Nightmare Stones](https://angelgrotto.com/crystals-stones/nightmares/)


	2. Waxing Crescent: Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martyn patrols while Phil keeps watch in the cemetery. Shit goes down and some discoveries are made.

Near Manchester 

December 7, 2002

_ “Phil,” his mother exhales his name. She’s sitting on the white sofa in their family room with Martyn. Her face is a mess of reddened skin and her eyes are puffy, watering at the sight of him. “Your father-”  _

_ She sobs and Martyn tightens his arm around her shoulders.  _

_ “What happened?” _

_ “We’re not sure yet,” Martyn says. He meets Phil’s eyes, but looks straight through him. “There was an explosion at the Watcher’s Council Headquarters in London.”  _

~~*~~

The sliver of the moon makes the blanket of grey clouds glow above the graveyard. Phil is perched near the fresh graves, easily distinguished against the blanket of snow covering everything. Martyn has gone to patrol the neighbourhoods while Phil keeps watch, just in case their inhabitants decide to show up with klingon-esque faces and bright yellow eyes. Luckily (or unluckily if you’re bored of the quiet) no one with fangs decides to join the party. And there is actually a party. Some dumb teenagers are stumbling around between gravestones, sending steamy laughs into the air. 

Phil knows that he should want to be doing stupid things like that, but his teenage years have been nothing but mixed martial arts and reading a tome entitled  _ Vampyre _ (and related works) with the occasional dash of witchy weirdness that apparently skipped a generation and his brother. Case in point: he spent the evening and most of the night of his thirteenth birthday shivering in the graveyard with his father and brother on his first hunt. 

Phil shivers, despite the multiple layers between himself and the cold. It’s hard to stay warm when there’s no reason to move besides shifting from one numbing foot to the other. Two pairs of wool socks and fleece lined combat boots (useful relics from his lesbian phase) and he still can’t properly feel his toes. He keeps an eye on his rambunctious peers and the shadowed spaces around them. At least he has the same nocturnal sleep schedule as regular teenagers. 

He spots Annabelle on the edges of the group with her hands shoved into her coat pockets and her nose tucked into her scarf. She’s much more careful where she steps, doing a kind of square dance between the plots, while her mates are trouncing over graves and jumping over headstones like it’s an obstacle course. 

He’s been staying at his grandma’s house more often than his parents’ because… well because his grandma’s magic and her crystals and herbs actually help him sleep, sometimes dreamlessly. He struggled to accept the reality of magic for a while. He was convinced it was all just placebo effect or tired hallucinations. 

Now he sets out his crystals (lapis lazuli, amethyst, pink calcite, and green jade) during the full moon and sleeps with them within reach every night. He does tarot readings in the morning and drinks dandelion tea (when he’s not drinking coffee). Last night, his grandmother had coached him through levitating a pencil (unsharpened because he was notoriously clumsy and not to be trusted with most pointy objects). He felt a bit like a child when his grandmother clapped excitedly as the pencil wobbled off the floor… a very proud child, but a child nonetheless. 

A rustle in the bushes and Phil snaps back to reality. Movement in the shadows surround the headstones and he starts sprinting across the grassy graves before Annabelle can turn to look at the space under the trees. A figure moves in the shadows toward her and Phil sees the moment when Annabelle understands and freezes. She’s next to the statue of an angel, her hands still tangled in her jacket while the angel prays with her eyes eternally carved shut, head tilted to offer her neck. 

Phil expects Annabelle to scream or run or do anything, but she just stands as still as the frozen air around her. A sliver of curved silver flashes, reflecting the lamp that lights the way through the frozen tableau. In the back of Phil’s mind, he registers a laugh barked into the silence from the group that had left Annabelle behind. It’s such an out of place soundtrack to the silent terror before him.

Phil’s feet carry him to Annabelle. He shoulders her out of the way and catches the wrist that holds the knife mid-stab, twisting and applying pressure in practiced movements. The knife falls into the snow and he immediately ducks down, palm landing on the handle of the knife and using the momentum to spin with one leg flung out, kicking the attacker’s feet from under them. He follows through the spin and shifts his centre of gravity so he tucks and rolls himself into position above the hooded figure, knife clutched in his hand, knees pressing to biceps, immobilising the attacker with a knife to their-

Ice strikes through his heart. A gasp catches in his throat. The man’s hood falls to reveal a completely bald head with normal features… except for his eyes. The spaces where his eyes should be are sealed shut and scarred over, symbols carved over them. The same symbols he had seen in his dreams; on the cover of that dust-covered book in his grandma’s lounge. The man doesn’t struggle for a moment, then there is an iron grip on both of his ankles. Phil chokes on an inhale and scrambles away kicking, all training forgotten, all moves and countermoves evaporated from his mind. Blind panic insisting he  _ move right now _ . 

He kicks and struggles until he’s off the man’s body and standing, knife poised in front of him defensively-

The man’s running figure retreats into the treeline, ruffling the bushes where he had appeared and disappears into the dark. Phil keeps his eyes locked on the bushes until they stop moving. 

“Phil?” Annabelle’s voice pulls Phil out of his frozen panic. Her eyes are locked on his right hand. Oh, right, he’s still holding a knife. The blade is curved and the handle is ornate, with rubies set in the filigree. There aren’t any creepy symbols on it, but that does little to put Phil at ease. 

Something’s happening. Something big enough that Phil doesn’t know what to do. 

“Phil, what the fuck?” Annabelle’s eyes are wide, “Have you been taking karate lessons? Who even was that? Why are you creeping around a graveyard? Was he going to  _ stab _ me?”

“Could I walk you home?” Phil asks. “Or, actually, would you mind coming with me to my grandma’s house? She knows a lot about… stuff like this.” Annabelle looks between him and the knife a few times before nodding. 

~~*~~

Grandma Dorothy surprises Phil by opening the door after a couple of knocks. It’s well past midnight, so Phil wasn't sure if she would be awake. She looks a bit out of sorts, but she's dressed in daytime clothes. She takes the knife from Phil’s hands without a word and heads into the dining room. Phil helps Annabelle out of her layers before following. Dorothy is sitting with loads of old books and loose papers spread across the table, flipping through yellowed pages. 

"Could you put on the kettle, love?" Dorothy says, eyes fixed on her task. 

"Um, sure yeah," he says. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, please," Dorothy says, fingers absentmindedly stroking the blade in front of her. She turns the page and continues reading. 

Phil’s Nokia starts ringing and he struggles to get it out. He walks into the kitchen and puts the phone to his ear.

“Alright, Mar?” 

“Phil! Thank fuck!” Martyn sounds out of breath. “I went to the graveyard and you were gone and there were signs of a struggle. Are you okay?”

“Oh, um,” Phil glances in the direction of the dining room, “Yeah, we’re good now. Meet at Grandma’s house?” 

Martyn agrees, and Phil makes four cups of coffee. 

He brings the tray out to find Annabelle sitting quietly at the table, looking at the mess with wide eyed confusion. He sets a cup in front of her and she nods in thanks. Dorothy grabs a cup from the tray, but doesn't physically acknowledge their presence. Phil feels a wave of gratitude pushing at his mind from her direction. 

It's still a strange sensation, but it's familiar enough from their near constant interactions that Phil lets the warmth wash over him without concern. It settles his nerves a bit whenever she reaches out in this way that only they can share. Most kinds of magic focus on manipulating the physical realm, but the Lester gift has always tended toward psychic abilities. He can’t read minds word-for-word or close his eyes and see the future, but he can sense the intent of the people around him and his dreams are usually vaguely prophetic. 

Last week he dreamt of burnt chicken nuggets and came home after school to find Martyn looking panicked and trying to get the smoke alarm to stop screaming at him. He also dreamt of spilled tea on a white sofa cushion… 

The front door opens and Phil shudders at the gust of cold that follows Martyn into the living room. 

“What’s new, crew? Oh, hey Annabelle.” Martyn blinks at her, then looks at Phil with a  _ what is she doing here? _ look.

“So you know that struggle you saw signs of?” Phil asks. Martyn nods. “Annabelle was attacked by this creepy guy in a hood whose eyes were like… sealed shut with celtic-looking symbols. I stole his knife.” 

Martyn nods again and looks over the mess on the table. He picks up a cup of coffee and hums appreciatively after a sip.

“Can someone please explain what the bloody hell is happening?” Annabelle spits the words out and all three Lesters’ eyes snap to her.

“Language, child,” Dorothy says.

“No.” Annabelle’s eyebrows are furrowed like she’s trying to glare, but her eyes are too wide with fear to pull it off. “I want to know what’s going on  _ right bloody now _ .” 

“Control your fear.” Dorothy is looking at Annabelle with unforgiving intensity. It makes Phil feel small and he’s not even on the receiving end. “Getting worked up won’t help anyone.” 

“Is this related to the attacks on the Watcher’s council?” Martyn asks.

“Yes,” Dorothy says, looking at Martyn. Annabelle slumps as soon as she’s free of Dorothy’s gaze, “Giles and I were parsing it out before-” The silence that follows weighs heavy in the air.

“Giles?” Annabelle asks.

“A Watcher and rather powerful sorcerer,” Dorothy says, turning back to her books. “He was working with the Devon coven, independently from the council, and overseeing the recovery of a troubled witch from the states.” 

“What happened to him?” Phil asks.

“I- I’m not sure,” Dorothy says. “We lost contact suddenly, but last time we talked he was seeking out Potential Slayers.”

“Potential what?” Annabelle looks overwhelmed again. Phil can’t blame her. 

“Vampire Slayer,” Martyn says, then clears his throat. “Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world-”

“A truly excessive use of your presenter voice, Mar.” 

“It adds to the drama, Philly,” Martyn says, then puts his serious face back on, “She alone will be- will stop the spread of evil-”

“Aww and you were doing so well,” Phil says, pushing his lips together against a giggle. 

“To stand against the forces of darkness-” Martyn huffs and, bless him, keeps trying. “Like… you’ll be really good at killing vampires and demons and stuff.”

“Basically you’re a superhero,” Phil says, then takes a moment to think about it. “Well, not yet. A girl has to die first, then you might be chosen to be the next Slayer.”

Martyn nods. “And  _ then _ you’ll be a superhero who’s really good at killing vampires and demons and-” 

“Stuff?” Annabelle looks simultaneously confused, amused, and terrified. It’s not a combination that Phil has ever seen before and it’s a very interesting mixture of fighting back a smile, wide eyes, and raised eyebrows. “Hold on. Circle back. What’s a Watcher?”

“We are,” Phil says. “Well, we’re training to be Watchers, technically, but Giles is the current Slayer’s official Watcher. Our job is to know things and help keep the Slayer alive.”

“We try our best, anyway,” Martyn says. “Fighting supernatural beings is a bit of a hazardous occupation. Some Watchers train Potential Slayers who never get called. And only one is called at any given time.”

“Though I suppose that’s not entirely true anymore since the Slayer did the whole dying and coming back to life thing,” Phil says, shrugging. 

“What?!” Annabelle’s eyes are like saucers. Phil really can’t blame her.

“Yeah, when she died another Slayer was called, so now there’s technically two chosen ones,” Martyn says. “But we don’t really talk about the other one.” Based on Annabelle’s face, this information does very little to make her understand anything.

“And-” Annabelle’s eyebrows are almost Annabelle’s eyebrow with how closely they’re drawn together, “The Slayer is always a girl?”

Martyn shrugs. “Always has been.” 

“Right,” Annabelle says, chewing on her bottom lip. “And there’s only ever one at a time?”

“With the exception of now, yes,” Phil says. “When one Slayer dies, the next one is called. The current Slayer just happened to come back to life after the next Slayer had already been called.” Annabelle is shaking her head slowly back and forth, like she’s trying to disagree, but is too shocked to speak. 

“Turns out Slayer powers are non-refundable,” Martyn says, “Who knew?”

“Yes, well,” Dorothy says, breaking through Annabelle’s stunned silence, “Giles was tracking a Potential on the east side of London when-” she clears her throat “we lost contact.”

“Did he find her?” Phil asks.

“Not that I know of,” Dorothy says.

“What does this have to do with me?” Annabelle asks, her voice small.

“You said a guy in a hood went after her with this knife?” Martyn says.

“The Harbingers of Death,” Dorothy nods. That unforgiving intensity has returned to her eyes. “They’ve been taking out Potential Slayers and Watchers since September.” 

“Were they responsible for London?” Phil whispers.

“Yes,” Dorothy says, then turns to Annabelle, “If you’re one of their targets, that means you’re either a Watcher or a Potential Slayer and since all of this seems to be new information to you-”

“I’m a Potential Slayer,” Annabelle whispers, eyes staring blindly at the table in front of her. Dorothy nods.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harbingers of Death (Bringers): high priests and foot soldiers of the non-corporeal First Evil. These demonic beings were seemingly former humans that had been corrupted by the First and transformed through rituals that included self-mutilation.


	3. First Quarter: Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil, Martyn, and Annabelle search an unfamiliar big city for allies and make a friend. 
> 
> Phans: Martyn is aged up a year for reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I want to post this at noon? Yes. 
> 
> Did I get distracted? Yes.
> 
> Here it is now tho!

December 11, 2002

They take an early train to London. On the way, they decide to split up to cover more ground. Annabelle will stay with Martyn during their search of the city for the Potential Slayer and (hopefully) Giles. There is a safehouse on the upper east side where they can stay the night if they don’t find anything by the end of the day. 

They arrive in the heart of London around noon. Martyn and Annabelle head west while Phil heads east. The streets are bustling with lunchtime traffic despite the chilling wind and slight drizzle. For the first couple of hours Phil weaves his way through moving bodies, keeping an eye out for robed figures or a head of grey hair standing tall above the crowd. Just as the mass of people starts to thin and his focus is less needed, his phone vibrates in his coat pocket. He smiles at the screen before answering.

“Hey mum.”

“Child,” she says, “I take it you made it to London without an issue, then?” Phil smiles and shakes his head, glancing down alleyways as he wanders further through the neighborhoods filled with blocks of flats . 

“Yeah, we made it here safely.”

“And you got the spare key from your grandma?”

“Yes, mum,” Phil sighs, smiling through his put upon tone.

“Well, you boys keep each other safe,” she says, worry evident in her voice. “I expect a call if you don’t plan on coming home tonight.”

“Of course, mum,” he replies earnestly. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.” Phil hangs up, and immediately runs into someone.

“Wochit, mate,” she says.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He looks up to see ringlet curls falling across her very familiar face. All that’s missing is a crossbow and a knife… and grabby hands coming out of the floor. She rolls her eyes in his face and shoves past him with her shoulder. He stares after her for a moment before following her. He keeps a safe distance between them, trying to get lost in the crowd around them both. It isn’t hard. He’s in the middle of a group of students being let out of school. Despite not being in the uniform the girl and her classmates are wearing, he’s about their age and doesn’t stick out much.

He stays a few paces behind her, but has to let the distance between them steadily increase as the amount of people about decreases until it’s just the two of them and she looks about an inch tall from his perspective. He reaches out with his magic just to get a sense of the intentions around him. There’s a homeless person down an alley across the street who’s sleeping fitfully. There’s a pigeon who’s… not debating cause that’s too complex a feeling, but it’s looking at something and trying to decide whether it’s food. The girl feels a bit distracted. He can sense that she’s swirling through several feelings, but it’s overshadowed by her intention to get where she’s going (presumably home as they’ve only passed blocks of flats for the past few minutes). 

He can’t sense anyone with ill intent, which is good. If he can avoid a fight he’d rather do that.

He’s been following the girl for about five long London blocks when he realises that he’s been stalking a girl on her way home because she looks like a girl who was killed in a prophetic dream. She’s probably a Potential Slayer, but how does he bring  _ that _ up? He knows she doesn’t have a Watcher because she hasn’t noticed him following her and that’s like… one of the first things Potential Slayers (and Watchers in training) learn to recognise. 

It starts as a prickle at the base of his spine. He wants to turn to look over his shoulder at the space behind him. He knows someone’s there, but not looking buys him time. He keeps his eyes on the girl ahead of him and risks speeding up the smallest bit so he starts to close the distance between them. Whoever is behind him feels focused (on him or the girl, he’s not sure). The intent to cause harm is there, but there isn’t the usual uncertainty or fear that accompanies it with most humans. Probably not human, then. 

No, definitely not human. His sense of the creature behind him weighs down on him like a dark cloud and it feels… connected to something much more sinister. They don’t feel like an individual being, more like an extension of a collective that’s tethered to something that pulls their strings like marionettes. He can’t get a clear view of what that  _ something _ is, but it’s definitely not the Easter Bunny. 

He’s a couple of yards away from the girl when she sneaks a look over her shoulder and spots him. He keeps his face neutral and focuses on the buildings to her right. She stops mid-stride and his eyes flick to her face. She’s looking right at him. No, she’s looking at the person right behind him and her eyes are getting wider. 

Reading intentions is connected to Phil’s prophetic gift. It’s sensing things just outside of what most people perceive. Sometimes it’s incredibly vague, but sometimes it’s painfully clear. He feels their intention like a knife through the ribs of his back and he turns, grabbing their wrist just as their knife’s about to reach his flesh. The bald, scarred face of a Bringer is all the confirmation he needs. He uses the momentum of their lunge to pull them off balance and they collide, chest to chest. He twists the wrist in his grip into a lock that allows him to confiscate the knife and bring them to their knees. A bump on the temple with the butt of their knife and the Bringer slumps.

He hears a scream behind him and turns to see one Bringer restraining the girl while another approaches with a knife. Phil flips the blade in his own hand and tests the weight. It’s curved and heavy, definitely not ideal for throwing, but--- it hits just below the knife wielder’s jaw and the force of the impact causes the Bringer to list to the side. Phil’s moving toward the girl and the last Bringer before the body hits the ground. Before he’s close enough to help, the girl swings her backpack around. It connects with the side of the Bringer’s face as she brings her heel down to stamp on their foot. 

The combination gets them to loosen their grip enough that the girl is free by the time Phil gets there, so he just grabs her wrist and starts running. 

“Mate! Mate, stop!” the girl yells, tugging him to the entryway of a flat. Phil keeps his eyes peeled for more Bringers as she punches in a number on the keypad. The door clicks and she pulls it open, Phil following right behind her. They pant in the lobby for a few minutes, Phil keeping his eye on the glass entryway and trying not to regret his choice to follow her into an enclosed space when she speaks.

“Cop a flower pot. Who the fuck were they?”

“Bad guys,” Phil says. “Trying to kill you.” 

The girl stares at him incredulously for a few tense seconds, then snorts.

“Well I’m gonna duck and dive, then.” She starts leaving before Phil has a chance to attempt to comprehend what she just said.

“Wait, no,” Phil says, grabbing her wrist. She startles at the sudden contact and wields her backpack like the weapon it is. Phil backs off, hands in front of him, palms facing out. “What I mean is, there are more of them and they won’t stop coming for you until you’re dead.”

“Wow, thanks,” she says. “I feel loads better now.”

“You should come with me,” Phil says. “My brother and I can keep you safe.”

“How?” says in exasperation. She’s looking at him like he’s a crazy person. Which is fair. This situation is well beyond normal for Phil and he’s grown up being taught at least one encyclopedia’s worth of information about basically every creature that goes bump in the night. He legitimately can’t imagine how overwhelming it would be to learn that, not only are there monsters running about, but some of them are actively trying to kill you. Martyn is better at explaining things without freaking people out. Hence his urgency to get her past the initial denial of facts and on to wherever Martyn currently is.

“And what was up with their-” She gestures to her eyes, which are wide with fear.

And, well. Phil doesn’t know. He knows they’re called Harbingers of Death. He knows they’re responsible for the deaths of a lot of the Watchers in London and a fair number of Potential Slayers around the world. He now knows that they’re following the directive of someone or some _ thing _ and that they’re not human. 

“Martyn and I are hoping to meet up with a friend who knows a lot more about the guys that are after you,” Phil says, hoping beyond hope that he can get her to come with him. Based on her skeptical expression, it’s not working. “Look, I know this is a lot, but I also know they’ll be back and there might be more of them this time. The good news is: I know at least two other people in this city and one of them is also trained in hand to hand combat, so meeting up with them is really-”

He’s saved from his rambling by his phone ringing in his coat pocket. He fumbles to get it out.

“Speaking of my brother,” he says when he sees the number; “Hey, Martyn.”

“You’ll never guess who Annabelle and I found sitting in a coffee shop with a conspicuous-looking tome,” Martyn says with a smile in his voice. Phil’s mind immediately jumps to their father before dismissing the idea. If Martyn had seen their father, back from the dead, he wouldn’t sound so upbeat.

“Who?” 

“Giles,” Martyn says, and Phil is  _ not _ disappointed.

“Well I think I found the Potential he was looking for,” Phil says, looking at the girl. She raises her eyebrows at him.

“Based on what evidence?” 

“Eyeless guys with stabby knives and creepy cloaks.”

_ “ _ Yup, that checks out. _ ”  _ Phil can hear Martyn’s faux contemplative look. _ “ _ Oh, what’s the girl’s name? _ ”  _

“Uh,” Phil looks at her again. Now her arms are crossed and she’s tapping her foot. “He wants to know your name?” She looks suspicious when she answers.

“Molly.”

“Hi, Molly. I’m Phil,” Phil awkwardly offers his hand for a shake. She takes it, which he takes as a good sign. “Where are you guys at?” 

Martyn tells him, and Phil asks Molly for directions. “But I think you should come with me at least to meet them. Partly because I’m shit at directions, but mostly because I don’t want you to die.” 

She snorts. “Thanks for that,” she says with a smirk, then her face turns serious. “Actually thank you, though. I’m just realising you saved my life back there.” Phil shrugs like it’s not a big deal. He knows it is, but he’s been doing this for two years and training for it much longer.

“It’s literally in the job description, but you’re welcome,” he says, holding eye contact. “ _ Please _ come with me.” She looks back at the lift before meeting his eyes with intensity and just a little bit of fear, and nodding.

“I know a shortcut through the light and dark,” she says. Phil’s face must be the perfect picture of confusion be cause she’s rolling her eyes. “The park, ya div. Let’s go.”

They make it to the cafe without incident, thankfully. Seeing Giles alive is relieving, like proof that not everything (and everyone) was lost. 

“Phil,” Giles says with a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too.” Phil gestures to Molly. “I found another Potential.” 

Giles nods, looking concerned. “How did you boys end up in London?” 

“Dorothy was worried about you,” Annabelle says. “And I came along on the off chance we found you.”

Giles nods again, then hesitates before saying, “Could no one else have come?”

“What do you mean?” Martyn asks.

“I don’t think your father would have wanted you running about putting yourselves in danger like this,” Giles says. Phil stares at him, open mouthed, struggling to find words.

“We have been training every day for  _ years- _ ”

“You’re 15 years old,” Giles says softly. 

“I’m 18, actually,” Martyn retorts.

“The  _ point _ is,” Giles says, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with a sigh, “You’re both too young to be taking on the full responsibilities of a Watcher. You’re still in training.”

“Slayers are called as early as age 12,” Phil says, his stare glacial, “And the Council, including our father, is gone. We’re what’s left.” Mr. Giles’ face twitches with a grimace for a brief moment, but his brows remain furrowed when the rest of his face relaxes. 

“While this is a gay and hearty bash,” Molly says, “I was told there are people trying to murder me and I quite fancy being alive, so what are we planning to do about this-” she gestures vaguely to herself, then Annabelle, then the street outside the window. She looks like she might finish her sentence, but words seem to have left her. Giles replaces his glasses, pushing them up his nose. 

“Yes, well, of course you’d like to know more about that,” Giles says. The girls lean forward in anticipation. “Unfortunately, we don’t know much about these so-called Bringers, but I'm going to stop by New York on my way to Sunnydale. It would probably be best for you two to join me. Hopefully the Council there has had more luck researching the who and why of it all.” Annabelle’s mouth is agape and Molly snorts.

“So you’re clueless and you’re, what- going to kidnap us and smuggle us onto a plane?” Molly asks, rolling her eyes.

“No! Of course not!” Giles says, fidgeting with the paper napkin in front of him, then mumbles, “I hadn’t really thought about that.” 

“So you have no plan,” Molly says, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of her chair.

“No, actually I don’t,” Giles says with another sigh. Molly looks shocked into silence at that. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but everything has gone downhill rather quickly and, with most of the Council gone… I’m working with incredibly strained and limited resources. I’m doing my best and the Devon Coven is helping any way they can, but we still don’t know who is doing this or why-” Giles shrugs. “We don’t know much, but we do know that Potential Slayers are being killed. I want to keep as many of you alive as I can. To me, Sunnydale seems like the safest place for you to be.”

Molly still looks skeptical, but her defensive posturing has relaxed with Giles’ admission. 

“You’re taking them to the Slayer?” Martyn asks.

“Yes,” Giles states with conviction, “I think they’ll be safer under her protection. I’ve asked all the Watchers I know to send any Potentials they find in that direction.” 

“We’ll keep an eye out as well, then,” Phil says. “For Bringers and whoever they seem to be going after.” 

“They’re going after Watchers too, as you well know,” Giles says with a pointed look at Martyn and Phil. His face softens as he pleads, “Be careful.” 

~~*~~

“Hey mum! We’re home!” She doesn’t answer, so Phil toes his shoes and jacket off, kicking them against the wall by the entryway. He’ll remember to put them in their spots later. For now he just really wants to grab some coffee before he heads to his grandma’s for a research session. He pokes his head around the corner to look in the lounge.

They’re sitting on the sofa. The only indication that there is anything wrong is that they’re too still. Mum’s head on Dorothy’s shoulder, Gran’s head against the top of her head. The cup of tea on the table in front of them is still wafting steam into the air. Phil walks around to the front of the sofa. There’s another mug on the cushion next to mum’s thigh and a brown patch where spilt tea has soaked in. 

In the periphery of his vision there are splashes of brilliant red, but all he can see is his mum’s favourite cup and spilt tea that is sure to stain. 

“What was for dinner? I’m starving,” Martyn says from near the door. 

The intention lingering about the room feels… practical. Clinical, but without that hospital smell. 

Despite the general gore and horror of the scene, which has Martyn shaking and sobbing, then throwing up in the bushes off the front porch, Phil feels… calm. This wasn’t a violent rampage and he can sense they hadn’t felt any pain. There's no surprise or fear vibrating in the echo of their final moments. What echoes remain feel like quiet conversation by a crackling fire. 

Phil walks toward the kitchen and freezes in the hallway. The kitchen light is on. The back door is open. Cold air gusts across his face, then a man walks into view. He’s a bit taller than Phil with a mop of chocolate curls on top of his head. Where the light touches it, it glows chestnut. He’s wearing a black wool trench coat and when he turns back, half of his face is obscured by the flipped collar. His eyes start out brown, then brighten into a dandelion yellow as his face rearranges into something familiar and sickening. 

The vampire disappears into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resources:  
> [Cockney rhyming slang](https://www.theguardian.com/education/2014/jun/09/guide-to-cockney-rhyming-slang)  
> [All recorded slayers](http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/hhigh/pastslayersbios.html)


	4. Waning Gibbous: Nurturing (Revenge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then along came Dan.

December 12, 2002

Phil had been the one to call the police. Martyn only stops heaving long enough to cry. Phil sits on the sofa across from the bodies and Martyn waits on the porch. They keep the front door open and Phil can see Martyn pacing in his periphery. Phil’s eyes are locked on the tea stain. There are crickets singing. An owl hoots. Sirens fade into the soundscape and intensify as the seconds tick by slowly. 

The police lights flash through the windows, illuminating the space and shifting shadows at irregular intervals. A medical worker crouches in front of him and looks into his eyes while speaking slowly. When she stands, she holds out her hands and helps him stand on wobbly legs. She leads him to the bench on the front porch where Martyn is already sitting and being asked questions by an officer. The black and white checkered pattern wrapping around his hat and sleeves reminds Phil of a belt in his closet. His mum had bought it for him a year or so ago after Phil had done a frankly excessive amount of begging. He doesn’t wear it on hunts for fear of soiling it. 

His attention is pulled back to the present when a blood pressure cuff is wrapped around his arm. While the cuff is being slowly deflated, they wheel out a stretcher with a body bag strapped on top of it. Martyn chokes on a sob beside him. 

Phil stares at it until it disappears into the back of one of the wagons. His eyes follow the second body bag until it joins the first. Then his eyes defocus and he doesn’t see anything, doesn’t feel anything until Martyn’s hand lands on his shoulder. Phil looks up at his brother’s face. It’s red and splotchy. His eyes are bloodshot. His nose and ears are red with cold. Phil can see the steam from their breaths intermingling between them and he shivers. 

They go inside without a word. The flashing lights are gone and their house is so quiet. Phil looks into the lounge and the sofa is gone. The room feels tilted toward the empty space. The clean carpet underneath is pressed down where the legs of the sofa once stood, a visual reminder of what was there. The unlit Christmas tree in front of the window looks wrong. The stockings hung on the mantel look wrong. The cheery baubles and tinsel that Phil helped his mum hang up a couple weeks ago make his stomach churn. 

Phil looks away and heads up the stairs to his room. He mechanically swaps out his binder for a too-tight sports bra and puts on an extra thermal layer. He grabs his utility belt and loads up with a couple of wooden stakes and a silver knife. On a whim he picks up the blue stone still sitting on his bedside table. He walks back down the stairs and retrieves his coat from the floor, slipping the stone into a pocket and pushing his feet into his combat boots.

“I’m going to patrol,” Phil says in Martyn’s direction. His own voice sounds lifeless to his ears.

“You don’t have to, Phil.” Martyn is sitting in the armchair, staring at the empty space where a sofa used to be. Phil can’t stand it. He needs to be outside, moving, keeping an eye out for danger. Hunting something.  _ Doing _ something. 

He walks out the front door without answering and starts his trek around the edge of the town toward the cemetery. 

Most of the town is sleeping. If his life were normal he would probably be sleeping as well. If a vampire hadn’t killed his mum, she’d be tucking him into bed. Or maybe they would be sitting around the table eating reheated dinner. Maybe he’d be pouring over books with his grandma, looking for lore about the Harbingers of Death or honing his abilities with her guidance. She probably came over to visit mum because the silence of their empty house was still too much sometimes. Now she’s gone too. Now his childhood home, which had been so full of love and life last year, is practically empty. 

He feels numb one second and like a raw nerve the next. It hits him all at once. He’s walking through a fog, then everything becomes so incredibly clear. Phil feels how alone he is in the world. It drops in his stomach like a tonne of bricks. He feels aware of everything all at once and has to focus to breathe.

“Phil?” 

Phil freezes. It can’t be. He turns to face the voice with unblinking eyes. He struggles to speak for a full minute, eventually pushing out a whispered, “Mum?” 

She smiles. It’s warm and full and she doesn’t have a scratch on her. Phil is scared to breathe too heavily for fear of breaking whatever illusion is in front of him. “Are you alive?”

Her smile falters and Phil hates himself for asking. “No, love,” she says, pushing her lips into a thin line. “I’m sorry.”

“No, mum. No.” He steps toward her, hands reaching out, but stops just shy of touching her. “Don’t apologise, I- I should have stayed home. I could have protected you-”

“Oh, Phil, love.” She shakes her head. “No. You couldn’t have.” 

Phil swallows around the lump in his throat and sniffs, blinking back the prickling precursor to tears. He nods solemnly, but keeps his eyes on his mum standing before him. 

“That… vampire,” she spat. Her face twisted with an intense anger she had never displayed while living. “He would have just killed you too. He’s dangerous. He’ll kill again.” She meets his eyes. “You have to kill him first.” Angry heat flares in Phil’s chest. He clenches his fist and a pot of frozen, shriveled petunias by the pavement bursts into flame.

“Do you know where he is?” Phil asks. His mum looks at the burning flowerpot, then meets Phil’s eyes. A small smile tugs at one of her cheeks.

“You’ll find him,” she says. 

Then she’s gone. 

Phil sticks to the suburbs surrounding the city proper and chases every shadow down every dark alley. He meets quite a few cats and startles a woman with curly black hair that looks too dark to be natural. When Phil turns the corner toward the cemetery’s gated entrance, he’s there. The half-full moon is low in the sky, about to disappear below the treeline behind where the vampire is standing. He hasn’t spotted Phil, so Phil takes a step back behind the brick column at the corner and takes a moment to think while peering at the figure of the vampire that took his family from him.

“You’ll have to be quick about it, son,” his dad says. Phil thinks he should probably be startled by his sudden appearance by his side, but he grounds himself in the familiar face and sure timbre of his voice. “This vampire is old enough to know how to talk his way out of most situations. Best to strike when he’s not prepared.”

When Phil turns to look at his father again, he’s vanished. Phil peeks around the corner as the vampire moves through the wrought iron gates. Phil follows tentatively. 

He makes his way to the oldest part of the cemetery where all the stones are rough with age and rain. Some of the headstones have been eroded so severely that the names that were once carved into them have been erased from existence. The vampire stops in front of a gravesite and Phil hides behind the leafless, drooping sprays of a weeping willow. It is one of the least ornate stones. There is only a surname and two years carved into the stone, which he can just make out from his position. 

Hywel 

1791-1818

Phil grabs a stake from under his coat. His hands are shaking and numb from the damp cold. He tests his grip around the wood, still warm from being against his body.

Phil’s hand finds the stone in his coat pocket and he grips it in his palm, letting the feel of the jagged edges bring his mind into sharp focus. An open calm settles over his mind. His breaths come more easily and his shoulders relax. On a whim, he reaches out, tentatively, with his mind. 

He had read, in his grandma’s books on psychics, that reading a vampire’s mind is impossible. When a vampire is turned, their soul is rejected from their bodies like a transplanted organ. When psychics of the past have attempted to read a vampire’s mind, their efforts echoed in the space where a soul should be, so Phil doesn’t know why he even attempts to seek out the vampire’s intentions. He should feel nothing. His attempt is like calling into an empty cave and expecting an answer. He grips the stone more tightly, drawing focus from its moon-charged aura, and listens. 

At first he hears nothing. Then he breaks through the frozen layer on the lake of the vampire’s mind and suddenly Phil is flooded with sensation. He gasps, pulling cold air into his lungs and his eyes slam shut.

Fear, misery, and magic radiate from the vampire in explosive bursts with a warm, golden undercurrent of steady determination. Phil is surrounded by the intense complexity of intention, unable to focus on anything else. 

“You shouldn’t be wandering alone through a graveyard at night, little lion.”

Phil’s eyes fly open and the vampire is right in front of him. His body acts before his mind can think. He frees his left hand from his pocket, and stabs forward with the stake in his right. The vampire grabs his wrist, halting its movement. Phil immediately drops the stake into his left hand and sinks it into the flesh of his stomach, pushing toward the vampire’s heart. 

The heel of the vampire’s hand punches against his sternum, knocking air from his lungs and sending him flying into the trunk of the willow tree. He sinks to the ground holding his diaphragm, struggling to breathe. The vampire grunts as he pulls the bloodied stake out and tosses it behind him.

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend you, but stabbing seems a bit excessive,” he says, then looks down at his stomach, “Damn. I really liked this shirt.” 

Then Phil is tackling him to the ground, another stake pressing toward his chest. They’re both grunting with exertion. Phil presses with the entire weight of his body, forcing the stake toward the vampire’s chest.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” the vampire says, straining against Phil’s weight, “You’re bloody determined.” Then he bucks Phil off of him and flips on top of him, shifting the stake so it’s flat between their chests. 

Phil shoves against the ground with his shoulder to keep up the momentum and he’s back on top of the vampire and swinging a punch toward the vampire’s jaw. Before it can land, the vampire grips the hair at the back of his head and he’s being pulled closer. His fist hits the dirt and there’s a searing pain in his neck as the vampire bites down and starts pulling blood from him. He cries out and does everything he can to pull away, clawing at dirt, clothes, skin, hair until he’s shoved off and onto the ground. 

He looks up in time to see yellow eyes fade back to brown as the vampire’s face smoothes back into something that resembles a human. The man above him thumbs a drop of blood into his mouth. He’s breathing as heavily as Phil, staring down at him hungrily for a moment before shaking his head and looking up at the sky with a sigh.

“I didn’t come here for a fight,” he says, then meets Phil’s eyes again. “Don’t follow me.” He turns to leave and Phil struggles to sit up, feeling woozy with every movement. He stands and sees blackness invading the edges of his vision. He breathes deeply, willing himself to stay conscious until he can focus on the retreating figure a few feet away from him.

“Stop,” Phil demands. His eyes fall closed as he gasps for breath. His mind is foggy with grief and shame and anger. It builds up inside of him until he feels nothing but hate for the vampire who took his family from him. Who bested him in a fight and didn’t think he was enough of a threat to finish the job. The hate burns in his veins. The air around him feels hot with it. He opens his eyes and they widen when he sees fire surrounding him and the vampire, trapping them together. 

The vampire turns back to look at him with curiosity. 

Phil hates that. He wants the vampire to feel afraid. He wants the vampire to fall to his knees and beg for his life. He wants to make him suffer.

“Burn him,” his grandmother says from beside him. “He killed me and your mum. He’ll kill Martyn. He’ll kill you. He can’t be allowed to go free and you’re no match for him physically.”

“Well, hello there,” the vampire says. “Where were you hiding, Grams?” 

“Don’t talk to her,” Phil spits.

“Calm yourself, child,” she says. “You need to focus.”

Between his recent blood loss and breathing in the heat and smoke from the blaze around him, his mind is fogging over. He can’t think. He has the vampire trapped, the fire around him an obvious threat to the vampire’s life, his grandma- one of the women he killed just hours ago- is standing in front of him, seemingly unharmed and he’s- something doesn’t add up, but he can’t-

He reaches back into his pocket and clenches his fist around the blue stone his grandma gave him. He feels its energy rush through him like cool spring water calming the flames of a wildfire. One question floats to the top of his mind.

“How did you get into the house?” He’s staring the vampire down. He doesn’t blink, though his eyes water when the wind shifts smoke into his eyes. 

“What?” 

“How did you trick them into inviting you in?” Phil says, cataloging furrowed brows and the small tilt of his head. “You’re a vampire. You need an invitation to enter someone’s home. My mother and grandmother know better than to invite a stranger into their house. So how did you get in?”

The vampire shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “I- when was this?”

“I saw you leaving when I got back tonight and-” He struggles, but forces the words out. “The blood hadn’t dried yet, so-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” the vampire says, shrugging with his hands out in front of him, palms up. “I came straight here off a plane to London. I shared a cab with some woman into town-”

“He’s lying,” his mum says from beside him. Phil sees the vampire’s eyes flick to his mother’s face and widen. “All he does is lie and kill his way out of every situation. He’ll pick a few key targets and manipulate his way into their home, slowly destroying their lives. And when he can’t manage it, he slaughters whole villages to get his way.” She takes a step toward the vampire and shifts form.

“He murdered your mum and grandma because he knew it would break you.” His dad’s stance is confrontational, his eyes hard as he looks back at Phil. “And he was right.” Phil’s heart drops and the fire is back to blazing around them. The heat of it pulls all the oxygen from the air. The willow branches closest to the ground start to blacken and fizzle.

“Now, hang on a minute,” the vampire says slowly. And there it is: fear has found its way onto his face. “I won’t deny that I haven’t always made the best choices-”

“Shut up, Dorian.” His mum spits, taking a couple steps toward the vampire. Phil looks at her and is shocked to see her face twisted in disgust. “Or, wait. You’re going by Dan now, right? As if a change in name will erase the things you’ve done.” Sparks and ash fall from above them, littering the ground with smouldering bits of leaves and sticks. 

The vampire- Dan- blanches and looks his mum over analytically. “I’m sorry, have we met?” 

“Oh.” Her form shifts suddenly into a woman with artificially curled sandy blond hair. She looks like she stepped out of a Jane Austen novel in a baby pink dress with a gauze shawl pinned over her shoulders. Her face twists into a viscous smirk. “We’ve met.”

“Anne?” Dan takes a step back in shock. He looks like he’s seen a ghost- which, to be fair, he has. 

“I  _ am _ pleased to see you again,” she says, gliding toward him and falling into deep curtsey. He bows as if it’s a reflex, the behaviour seeming strange in juxtaposition with his contemporary clothes.

“What’s happening?” Phil says, looking between them, “Who is that?” He points at the stranger, looking at Dan.

“It’s just me, sweetheart,” his mother says and when he looks back, she’s there again. Her face is soft with concern and Phil feels like his heart is being pulled from his chest by her fingers. 

“I’m not sure what’s happening,” Dan says, staring at the apparition before him, “but I don’t think that’s your mother.” The fire Phil started has fully caught on the branches of the willow tree. 

There’s movement behind the flames. Phil’s eyes latch onto the hooded figure now standing still behind Dan, distorted by the heat of the fire. 

Then there are fingers grabbing his arms and forcing them together behind his back. The stone drops from his hand as he struggles and kicks blindly, trying to make contact with any part of his captor. Through the smoke that’s making his eyes water, another hooded figure approaches, brandishing the familiar curved knife. He doubles over, collapsing, then throwing his head back, trying desperately to loosen the hold on him. He gets one arm free for a moment, then there are two pairs of hands grabbing him, each taking an arm and locking him in position between them. Their grips are painful and he can’t see, can’t breathe. 

They kick his feet from under him and he lands hard on his knees. An ember burns through the knee of his jeans and into his skin. It hurts. Everything hurts. The Bringer with a knife is getting closer. The ends of his robes are singed as he walks over the smouldering ground. Phil gasps and coughs and wheezes through the smoke surrounding him and tries. He tries so hard to find a way out. When he can’t, he tries to keep his head held high. He tries so incredibly hard, but his eyesight is speckled with darkness that spreads until everything is swallowed by blackness. 

~~*~~

He wakes up flat on his back. He can feel the cold and wet from the ground seeping through the clothes at his back. He opens his eyes to see Martyn and a woman with curly black hair are kneeling over him with wide, fearful eyes and fluttering hands. 

As soon as Martyn looks at his face, tears well in his eyes and he pulls Phil off the ground, cradling him against his chest. 

“Thank god, Phil,” Martyn sobs. “Thank goodness. Fuck, I thought you were dead. You were so pale and I couldn’t tell if you were breathing and- fuck. I’m just so glad you’re alright.” Phil wraps his arms around his brother, gripping into the fabric at his back. His body feels like it’s filled with lead. His throat is on fire. His eyes prickle with tears and he grips tighter to his brother as he sobs. 

Martyn runs a hand over Phil’s hair and tightens his grip around Phil’s shoulders, hushing him, whispering softly, “It’s okay, Phil. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re home. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Phil shivers and Martyn pulls back to look at him. “Do you think you can stand? We need to get you inside.” Phil nods as he looks up to see that he’s in the front lawn of their house. He tries to stand, but he stumbles and coughs violently. 

Martyn and the woman share a look and wordlessly take an arm over their shoulders, lifting him up and holding most of his weight. The woman is quite a bit shorter than the brothers, but she puts a stabilising hand around his waist and keeps him from tipping over while Martyn holds his weight and basically drags him onto their porch and through the front door. They ignore the lounge and pull Phil up the stairs, where Martyn guides them into the bathroom. The woman helps him sit on the edge of the tub.

“Cornelia, could you fetch the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard? It should be on the shelf just above eye level.” The woman nods and leaves the room. Martyn starts taking off Phil’s outer layers. His coat and jeans are riddled with scorch marks. The collar of his shirt is caked in dried blood. Once he’s stripped down to his undergarments, Martyn wets a washrag and starts wiping the grime off Phil’s face and body, avoiding his wounds for now. It feels amazingly cathartic to get the grime off his skin and his eyes close as he lets himself be taken care of. He starts to nod off and Martyn’s hand grabs his shoulder to keep him from falling forward.

“Steady now, Phil,” Martyn says. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern. Cornelia comes back in with the first aid kit and Martyn pulls out antiseptic wipes and gauze. He gets to work, wiping gently at all the little burns scattered across his skin before turning his attention to the wound on Phil’s neck. Phil tenses, trying not to move as Martyn cleans the sensitive skin. After a moment, Martyn pauses. 

“Phil.” Martyn’s voice is shaking and when Phil looks, he’s staring directly at Phil’s neck. “What happened?” Martyn doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t look pleased. Phil wants to shrivel out of existence. 

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Dorian Hywel (Dan’s given name in this AU) means “gift” and “eminent” (not to be confused with imminent). So, according to his name, he is a positive gift in (this version of) Phil’s life. 
> 
> Weird things I googled for this chapter:  
> Revenge shrub  
> Revenge bush  
> Revenge plant  
> Butt of the knife  
> Willow tree anatomy


	5. Waning Gibbous: Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised Christmas episode (posted in August cause I'm an agent of chaos)!!!

December 25, 2002

_ The heavy smell of smoke arrives before the blazing fire. It spreads quickly across the tall, dry grass toward the lion cub lying injured in the clearing. A brown bear emerges from the flaming trees and walks across the scorched earth. Flames lick around his fur and with each step the flames fizzle and spit, but leave him unharmed. The bear walks up to the lion cub and nuzzles its limp body. The cub squeaks out a rasping cry at the contact, but doesn’t move.  _

_ The flames get closer.  _

_ The bear looks at the flames he’d just passed through then leans down and takes the cub’s scruff gently between his teeth, lifting him up and ambling slowly out of the consuming heat to safety. _

Phil wakes up feeling safe, warm and cosy under clean sheets. Martyn and Cornelia had finally figured out how to operate the washer after a lot of trial and error and yelling at said appliance. Yesterday, Martyn had set Phil in a chair while he changed the bed that Phil had been mostly confined to since they came home. He hasn’t seen much of Cornelia since that first night, but he hears her and Martyn moving about the house constantly. Loud disagreements with appliances and hushed conversations drifting through his closed door. He had lost enough blood that his brain ached and he was tempted by unconsciousness when he wasn’t lying down.

The clean cotton feels glorious beneath his palms. Then the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread wafts distractingly through his doorway. His head isn’t pounding and his body isn’t feeling as achy, so he kicks off his covers. His feet land on soft carpet and he takes a moment to assess whether his body is able to handle being fully upright. His shoulders twinge a bit when he stretches them. The skin around his scabbed over burns feels a bit too tight and it’s a bit harder to keep his breath. He feels his body struggling to get blood all the way up to his brain and his temples are just a bit throb-y, but when he takes a deep breath he feels less lightheaded. 

If Martyn wants to yell at him for getting up, he thinks he might even be able to yell back. It’s been about two weeks of enforced bedrest and it’s bloody Christmas. He’s going to get up and indulge in some good old fashioned cheer. He stands and takes more deep breaths when he wobbles. When he’s stable, he grabs the soft jumper from the chest at the end of his bed. 

Music floats through the hallway, getting louder as he descends the stairs and approaches the kitchen. Martyn is standing in front of the stove with their mum’s frilly, floral apron tied around his front, wielding a spatula. Cornelia is sitting at the breakfast bar with drooping eyelids, staring into a cup of coffee. 

“Hey there,” Cornelia says when she looks up. “How are you feeling?”

Martyn spins on the spot shouting, “Phil!” then rushing to give him a gingerbread and batter smelling hug. When Martyn pulls back, he unleashes the full power of his smile on Phil, who can’t help but smile tiredly back. 

“Happy Christmas,” Phil says with a small smile before he remembers. Phil watches the corners of Martyn’s mouth turn down and they wrap each other up in the biggest bear hug. Martyn chokes on a sob and Phil hushes him wetly through his own tears. 

Then Cornelia is there with a box of tissues and she is taking the spatula from Martyn and shooing them both toward the breakfast bar. 

“Do you want some coffee, Phil?” she asks. He nods, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose as quietly as he can. Martyn does the same, then takes a deep breath and his cheeks puff out as he exhales slowly. He seems to shake himself before turning to Phil.

“Corn and I figured we’d attempt to make the mince pies Mum put in the freezer and then go on a scavenger hunt for the presents that I’m sure are hidden away somewhere clever.” Martyn just manages to keep his frown from turning into another sob and Phil has to breathe heavily for a bit before he can respond without crying. 

“Yeah,” his voice breaks over the word, but he soldiers on. “That would be good.” Cornelia sets a coffee in front of him with a soft smile then flips a gingerbread pancake onto a plate and slides it over to Phil. Phil looks down at them, his eyebrows scrunched together.

“These pancakes are a lie,” he says. Cornelia and Martyn share a shocked and confused look.

“How do you figure?” Martyn asks.

“They’re called Traditional Lester Family Gingerbread Pancakes.” Phil sighs into the delectable creation. “But they’re just a dash of seasoning thrown into regular pancake mix.” 

“Well,” Martyn says, looking between Phil and the pancakes, “We traditionally make them as a family on Christmas morning and they’re the brainchild of a tiny Phil, so there’s the Lester bit sorted.”

“But it makes it sound like a thing that was passed down for generations as a secret recipe that no one ever wrote down because it was so special and that it was only taught to the next generation by slaving over them for hours when-” Phil’s voice breaks and he gasps, “-when it was just five year old me complaining because I wanted to eat both pancakes and gingerbreads, so Grandma Dorothy added some gingerbread seasoning to the pancake batter.” Phil sniffles and wipes his cheeks with the sleeves of his jumper. It isn’t even a Christmas jumper. It’s just a regular jumper. Why hadn’t he picked out a Christmas jumper? 

“In Sweden,” Cornelia says, “We have a tradition involving goats-”

Martyn snorts his confusion and it’s a random enough change in topic to halt Phil’s spiral for a moment. Cornelia glares until Martyn has settled down, but she isn’t quite able to hide how her amusement tugs at the corners of her mouth. 

“The Julbock nowadays is usually in the form of a candle holder or an ornament, but it was originally made from the last straw of the harvest. There’s still a giant straw goat that’s built in Gävle every year. It’s also burned down every year, but that’s tangential.” She waves a hand through the air, then fixes her gaze on Phil again. “Now it’s just a symbol of Christmas. We have Santa Clause and a goat who give out gifts. But before that, the Julbock was a trickster who demanded gifts and before that it was associated with Thor and before  _ that _ it was the form of a harvest god-

“My point is that we hang ornaments of goats on our Christmas trees in Sweden and we build a gigantic goat out of straw every year and it’s a tradition that has been happening for centuries, but the reason we do it has changed. The meaning changed.” She looks at Phil, then Martyn. Phil looks at Martyn and sees what is probably a mirror of his own confusion. 

“So why does it matter that your tradition is younger than you?” Cornelia points her fork at Phil. “Traditions are important because they bring people together and let us express our love for each other with actions. For your family that means having regular pancakes with gingerbread seasoning on Christmas morning.” She shoves a forkful into her mouth, then closes her eyes and chews. “And these are some damn good pancakes.”

“Definitely better than a flammable goat,” Martyn says. Cornelia throws a banana at him. It hits him in the arm.

“Banana abuse!” he shrieks and does a magnificent job of behaving as though he’s been mortally wounded. He falls off his chair, clutching his arm and wailing in pain. “Babuse!”

Phil chuckles at his brother’s writhing form. Cornelia does her best to look like she’s not amused by the ridiculous display, but she gives up and smiles with a sigh. Martyn ‘dies’ dramatically, so Phil and Cornelia go back to their breakfast. 

Phil breaks the silence. “So, Martyn’s been hogging you since your arrival-” Martyn makes a sound of protest. Phil glares then pointedly says, “but now that he’s  _ dead: _ how did you find yourself in our neck of the woods?”

“Ah, yes, well,” she clears her throat, “I’m a Potential Slayer. My Watcher was going to take me to London originally, but… that didn’t work out. Some witches said I’d be safest with the Lesters, so I came here.” 

“She happened to catch us on a bit of an off night,” Martyn says, seemingly recovered from Cornelia’s assassination attempt. He pulls himself off the floor and makes it back onto his stool.

“I’d say it was perfect timing,” she says with a fond smile in Martyn’s direction. “I caught a cab with some guy who was nice enough to point me in the right direction. When I arrived you had just left to go patrol.” 

“I was a bit of a mess when she showed up,” Martyn says with a smile at Phil that doesn’t reach his eyes. “She was the one who noticed you on the front lawn.” Cornelia nods into her coffee. 

“And you didn’t see how I got there?” Phil asks. 

“No,” she says, then looks at Martyn who stares resolutely at his coffee.

Phil had told him everything he had remembered as soon as he was coherent enough to try piecing it all together. The vampire, the ghosts, the visions, the fire: none of it adds up when considered together. Phil’s magic has always focused on the future more than the past, so his sudden aptitude for seeing ghosts doesn’t make sense. 

“I’ve been helping Martyn research shapeshifting ghosts, but we haven’t found any mention of something like what you saw,” Cornelia says.

“And we’re still struggling to find anything on the Bringers,” Martyn adds. “We’ve had some trouble getting a hold of Giles, so we don’t know if he’s any further along in his research or if he made it to Sunnydale with Annabelle and Molly. I didn’t feel comfortable sending Corn off to California without a guarantee that she would have a safe place to be.”

“I also think I’ll be more helpful around here,” Cornelia says, “And Martyn and I have been training on the off chance I get called.” 

“We’ve been making the rounds since you showed back up, but there haven’t been any reports of bloodless victims or sightings of suspicious characters hanging about the cemetery.” 

“That’s good,” Phil says. His mind supplies the vampire’s face, both in his dream and in the graveyard. Had he escaped the fire? Did the Bringers go after him as well? He picks at his pancakes and washes it down with coffee. “You were right, Cornelia. These are damn good pancakes.”

~~*~~

The present scavenging turns out to be a lot more involved than any of them originally planned. It’s easy to get distracted by all the sentimental items scattered about the house. They end up reminiscing and tidying more than looking for presents. There are many laughs to be had looking back at Martyn’s unfortunate haircuts and their parents’ attempts to dress Phil up for holidays. Almost every early picture of Phil in a dress involves him flashing the camera. Sometimes just his knees, sometimes basically everything. There’s even one family portrait where Phil’s just wearing a diaper, socks, and fancy shoes while sitting on Mum’s lap. In that one Dad is clearly trying to tone down his smile, Mum is looking frazzled, and Martyn is pouting because he’s stuck wearing an uncomfortable formal shirt and trousers.

They don’t end up finding the presents in their house, so they decide they must have been hidden at Grandma Dorothy’s, but it’s getting dark and none of them have the energy to attempt sifting through a second house at that moment. 

The edges of the mince pies come out a bit singed, but they’re amazing and they taste like Christmas and home and eating them definitely makes Martyn and Phil tear up a bit. After a full day of large meals and reminiscing, Phil is twitching to get out of the house. He knows he should be exhausted, but his body is thrumming with energy as the moon starts its path across the sky toward its zenith. The higher it climbs the more restless he feels. 

Phil slips his boots on and shrugs into his jacket, shoving his phone into his pocket. He’s got a couple of stakes sheathed in his belt. Just in case. “I’m going for a walk,” he says in the direction of the living room. “I’ll call you if I die.”

“Make sure that you do,” Martyn says with an exaggerated stern look. “Curfew is at nine on school nights.”

Phil snorts. “It’s Christmas and half past one.” 

“Would you like us to go with you?” Cornelia looks up from the tome she’s been pouring over with her eyebrows drawn together. 

“Nah. Gotta come at them one at a time so we’re easier to take out. Don’t want us dying all at once.” Phil smiles warmly at her and attempts a wink. It doesn’t work, but his attempt did bring a smile to her face, so that’s a win in Phil’s book. 

Phil steps into the damp cold of the night and almost squashes a small, square box sitting on the welcome mat. It’s wrapped in red paper with cartoon animals printed on it. Centred on top of the box is a little lion, roaring adorably. Phil’s hands shake as he picks it up. His fingers fumble, trying to undo the thin paper without tearing it. He manages with minimal damage and his vision blurs with tears when he sees a rough blue stone nestled in bright green tissue paper. The air around it radiates with power, especially when the moonlight peaks out from behind the clouds to wash over it. 

When he takes it into his hand, his eyes close automatically and he takes a deep breath of clean air as his mind settles. When his eyes open, he sets off with purpose toward the cemetery. He heads straight there, keeping his ears open, but leaving the cats to their alleys. When he gets to the willow tree he stops and stares in shock. The ground is muddy, but unburned. The previously scorched branches are whole. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” says a voice behind him. He turns to see Dan smirking at him, a dimple appearing on his cheek. He looks at Phil’s hand. “I see you got my gift.” Phil’s immediate reaction is to reach for a stake, but he stills his hand. Dan hadn’t become violent until Phil had attacked him multiple times, so maybe that’s not the way to get answers.

“Yes,” Phil says tentatively. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” Dan shrugs. “That’s a powerful stone, so I figured it was precious to you. I’m just sorry it took me so long to return it.” 

“Why did you?” Phil asks. “If it’s powerful, why not keep it for yourself?”

“I already tend to fixate, so a stone that amplifies focus would be counterproductive. Though I suppose the whole clarity aspect of it would be useful,” Dan says tapping a fingertip against his own temple with a smile. “It’s an emotional maelstrom of indecision up here.”

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” Phil says, then cringes internally. Dan’s eyebrows shoot into his curly fringe. “Not anything weird. Well, it’s a dream, so of course it’s a bit weird, but not like…  _ weird _ you know?”

“I’m not sure you’re selling your case here, mate,” Dan says with a chuckle, “Pretty sure you’re just making it worse. Especially since we met just the once. And there was enough nightmare material surrounding those events I’d be surprised if you told me I had a guest cameo in any of your dreams.” 

“No, I mean I’ve been having them for months,” Phil rushes to explain. “It’s basically the same dream on repeat over and over again, but you’re always there. Even when other details change.” It feels weird telling Dan about this, but Dan just looks at him with that familiar curiosity. Something glittering just behind his eyes like Phil is an exceptionally difficult puzzle. “And it’s a bit more than a cameo,” he mutters.

“That stinks of prophetic tendencies,” Dan says. 

“Yeah. My grandma said I got that from her.”

“Your grandma…?”

“Dorothy Stryker.”

Dan hums. “Good woman. Great witch. Never met her, but I’ve heard of her.”

Phil blinks. “Where could you have possibly heard of her?”

Dan shrugs. “I casually check in on the bloodlines of powerful witches when I get the chance. It keeps me aware of the mystical goings-on so I’m not caught off guard by some new big bad. When something wicked this way comes, you can always count on the witches to smell it brewing before anyone else.”

Phil’s jaw drops. “What?”

“But I haven’t heard of you,” Dan says, eyes shining with curiosity. “I thought I would have heard about the next witch in the Stryker line.” He grimaces. “Though a lot of my contacts seem to have dried up recently.”

“I’m a recent discovery. Like, I’ve been-” Phil swallows, “I  _ was _ Dorothy’s part time apprentice, but I was just training to be a Watcher under my father until, you know… I started having prophetic dreams.”

“We were never properly introduced,” Dan says. He sounds so much like a dapper gent who is regretful about the social faux pas that Phil can’t help but snort. Dan ignores him. “I’m Dan Howell and you are?”

Phil looks Dan over with a smirk before he answers. “Phil Lester.” 

“Nice to meet you, Phil,” Dan says with a flourish of his wrist and an exaggerated bow. It looks just as weird now as it did last time, but it’s more playful. Phil is surprised to feel a full smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “What brings you to my humble grave?”

“You were buried here?” Phil asks.

Dan nods, then points at the stone he visited before. “Just there.”

Phil steps into the moonlight and up to the gravestone.  _ Hywel 1791-1818 _ on a simple, flat stone. He realises after he sees Dan come up beside him that he just had his back to the vampire. He’s unsettled by how unafraid he feels. They’re quiet as they contemplate the minimal carving. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the kind of respectful silence that cemeteries encourage. The crickets sing around them. A fox calls out. Phil thinks of the night he saw Dan standing here and every confusing, overwhelming, terrifying moment that followed. “How did I get back to my house that night?” 

“Oh,” Dan says, breathing out a laugh. He rubs the back of his neck a little nervously before continuing. “I, uh. I carried you there. Followed the trail of your scent back to the source. I would have knocked, but I was a bit spooked at that point. I made sure the girl noticed you there, then left them to it. Also, a vampire showing up with a body sporting puncture wounds in the neck probably wouldn’t have gone over very well.” 

Phil nods with a smile. “That would not have gone over well at all,” he says. “Wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t bit me.”

“Unlike you, I don’t tend to tote weapons around. I work with what I have on hand. Metaphorically.” 

“You could have just held me down,” Phil says dryly. “Vampire strength and all that. You didn’t have to bite me, much less drain me enough to have me on bedrest for two weeks.” 

Dan hums, but doesn’t try to justify his decision any further. 

“I would like to get to know you better, Phil Lester,” Dan says. When Phil looks over at him, Dan is looking back at his grave. Phil is surprised when he isn’t immediately opposed to the idea. “We met under strange circumstances, and I have yet to puzzle out what exactly happened, but if you’ve been having prophetic dreams with me in them, I’m inclined to think that it would be beneficial for us to work together toward finding their hidden meaning.” 

“How?”

“I had a run in with some Roma people who taught me quite a bit about dream interpretation,” Dan says with a smirk. “I also dabble in a bit of magic. I’m lucky you chose to attack with fire. It’s one of my specialties.”

“Vampires can do magic?” Phil asks. 

Dan nods. “We’re less adept on average than humans. With super strength and super speed, not many of us feel the need to hone such abilities, but I’ve found that brute strength doesn’t always win the day.” 

Phil struggles to rearrange his world view and understand, but he doesn’t really. “Why would you want to help me?”

Dan looks at him curiously again. “You’re the grandson of Dorothy Stryker. She’s one in a long line of  _ very _ powerful witches. If you’ve inherited her gift then making sure you survive whatever your dreams are warning you about would be in my best interest.”

Phil thinks for a bit, playing with the stone in his hands. He curiously reaches out with his mind and, instead of the overwhelming surge of intentions, Dan feels dedicated. His desire to help is a solid resolution. Phil looks at him and finds that resolution mirrored in his eyes.

“Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weird things I googled for this chapter:  
> [Julbock](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yule_goat)
> 
> Last chapter was a bit intense, so this is my like... apology for that? Nah I enjoy betraying your trust and ripping your heart out. It's a really fun hobby. XD


	6. Third Quarter: Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some conversations are too much for Lesters to handle first thing in the morning.

December 26, 2002

“You met up with the vampire who left you banged up enough to be on bedrest for  _ two weeks _ ,” Martyn says, glaring at Phil over the dining table, “and now you want to invite him  _ into our home _ cause he said he wanted to  _ help _ ?” 

Which is fair. And sounds quite bad when spelled out so plainly. He chews through his mouthful of cereal and swallows before responding. “Yes?” 

“And this is the same vampire who you say you saw leaving the house right after we got home and found two of our family members  _ dead _ on the sofa with fang-shaped holes in their necks?” 

Also fair. Also horrible sounding. But Phil is pretty darn sure that Dan didn’t do it. He can’t explain why or how Dan was in their house, but he said he had just gotten in from London- 

“Hey, Cornelia.” Phil looks at her suddenly as the idea pops into his head. Cornelia meets his gaze reluctantly. “You know that guy you got a cab with?” She nods hesitantly. “What did he look like?”

“Oh um… he was tall? Curly brown hair. Oh! He had a dimple!” 

Did Dan have a dimple? “Would you say he was a decent guy?”

She squints her eyes in suspicion. “This feels like a trap.” 

Martyn is still glaring. “If you’re trying to change the subject, I will  _ not _ be that easily distrac-”

“ _ That _ was Dan.” Phil takes a breath to let that sink in. When he’s met with blank stares, void of comprehension, he continues, “The vampire who I saw leaving our house was the same guy who Cornelia caught a ride into town with  _ hours later _ .”

Stunned silence. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Martyn says with a look like his head is being squeezed. 

“No! It doesn’t!” Phil says, throwing his hands into the air. “Look, I don’t get it either, but it all has to be connected. Dan’s been showing up in my dreams for  _ months _ . That’s the only reason I recognised him as he was leaving. I left hoping to find him that night and tried to kill him  _ multiple times _ , but he didn’t make a single attempt on my life.”

“He bit you!” Martyn yells.

“Yeah, and I stabbed him!” Phil counters. “I’m not saying he’s perfect, but he made sure I got home and that you noticed me in the lawn.  _ And  _ he returned the dream stone Grandma gave me.” 

Cornelia and Martyn look at each other, then back to Phil in sync. Under any other circumstances it would be hilarious, but seeing as they’re talking about knowingly inviting a vampire into their house… Phil isn’t quite sure when he’d become a vampire ambassador, but here he is, trying to convince a Watcher and a Potential Slayer that a vampire is their ally. 

“So, what, we just-” Martyn struggles, flapping his hands about in a general gesture toward the house, “-invite him inside?”

“If you saw him leaving the house, then he’s presumably already gotten an invitation,” Cornelia says, staring a hole through the table. “So we have him come over and we see if he can make it through the door without an invitation. If he can’t, then… well then we know that something else was wearing his face while fleeing the crime scene.” 

“Is that even a thing?” Martyn mumbles while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hang on,” Phil says, tapping at his temples excitedly. “We have a shapeshifting ghost walking about wearing the faces of our dead family members.”

“But Dan’s a vampire,” Martyn says slowly. 

“And therefore a dead person,” Cornelia says with wide eyes.

They all stare at each other in turns. 

“It’s too fucking early for this shit,” Martyn groans and collapses against the back of his chair. “I need at least twelve more coffees and an hour to stare blankly at a wall until my brain will be able to process any of this.”

Each of them choose a section of wall to stare at while they sip their coffee. Phil is honestly still reeling from the realisation that this ghost or whatever might make itself look like Dan. Which would mean the ghost-thing wanted Phil to try to kill Dan. Which means that the ghost-thing wants either Dan or Phil or both dead. Phil shakes his head and gulps down another mouthful of coffee. Martyn is right. It’s too early for this shit.

“Okay, so game plan,” Cornelia says, slapping a hand against the table. Martyn and Phil jump, but she ignores them in favour of continuing. “We get Dan to come over and try to come in without an invitation. If he can’t, then the shape shifting ghost was wearing his face. We invite him in and he helps us and hopefully doesn’t kill us. If he can, he comes in and kills us.” 

Phil nods at her, then shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge the ridiculousness that is his life. 

It doesn’t work.

The house phone rings and Martyn groans his way out of his chair and across the room. He shakes out his shoulders before picking it up.

“Lester residence, Martyn speaking,” he says. His face lights up and he smiles broadly at Cornelia and Phil. “Hey, Giles! It’s so good to hear your voice. Have you made it to Sunnydale?” He goes into the other room as Phil and Cornelia grin at each other.

“I’m glad he called back,” Phil says, surprised by the amount of relief he feels. 

“Me too,” Cornelia says into her coffee. They’re quiet for a bit, letting the occasional murmur of Martyn’s voice in the other room wash over them. Phil finishes his cereal and gets up to rinse the bowl and grab himself another cup of coffee.

“You want another?” Phil gestures to Cornelia’s cup. 

She nods. “Please.” 

Phil takes both their cups and his bowl to the sink. He rinses his bowl, then sets about gathering supplies as the kettle heats up. Cornelia huffs at the table, poking her plate of eggs with a fork. Phil raises his eyebrows at her and she huffs again.

“I just can’t believe I spent half an hour in a taxi with a vampire and just like-” Cornelia waves a hand in front of her face, “-didn’t notice.” 

“Well, I’ve been dreaming about him almost every night-”

“Bit creepy, that.”

“It’s not like I- I-” Phil huffs. “I didn’t see him, think he was fit, and then like… insert him into my dreams.” 

“Ew.” Cornelia says with a grimace. “Don’t ever say  _ insert _ , like… ever again.” Her face turns thoughtful. “He is quite fit, though.”

“Cornelia!” 

“What? He is!” She shrugs. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I was a bit more focused on killing him to avenge my family, so…” He looks at her incredulously. She raises a sceptical eyebrow at him and he stares into his empty mug, feeling thoroughly caught out. “Fine, I noticed. He’s a bit fit.” Cornelia hums in affirmation. Phil scoops a couple teaspoons of instant coffee and sugar into the cups just before the kettle beeps. He tops them off with some milk and makes his way back over to the table. Cornelia smiles at him gratefully when he sets the cup in front of her. 

“So why didn’t London work out?” Phil asks, cupping his coffee and enjoying the warmth on his cool fingers. “With your watcher.” The smile drops from Cornelia’s face and she looks resolutely at her plate. Phil sees her shoulders rise and fall with shallow breaths. 

“Bringers found us on our way to the airport,” she says quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. “We were in a rather small town and the cell towers had been acting up for weeks. No one could place any calls, but when they got everything back up and she still couldn’t contact the Council, she booked our flight there. There were so many of them on us all at once and I couldn’t-” She takes a deep breath and releases it shakily. “She held them off and I just barely made it onto the plane.”

“She was killed?” Phil whispers.

Cornelia nods. “When I got to London and found charred rubble where the Council building should have been... I didn’t know what to do. Then a witch from the Devon Coven showed up with an envelope of cash, a plane ticket to Manchester, and a piece of paper with this address on it.”

“Well, shit.” Phil blinks rapidly. He tries to think of anything else to say and draws a blank. He looks up at Cornelia who’s staring at him in shock. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s like hearing my grandma swear.” 

Phil opens and closes his mouth several times. “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

Cornelia shrugs, helpfully, and scoops the last of her eggs into her mouth, washing it down with coffee. 

“Alright, yeah. Thanks, Giles.” Martyn reemerges from the other room looking morose. He avoids their eyes as he puts the phone on its stand and sits down in his chair. Phil and Cornelia share a concerned glance. Cornelia places a hand on Martyn’s shoulder, rubbing her thumb in soothing little circles. 

“What happened?” she whispers into the quiet. 

Martyn pulls in a shaky breath. “Annabelle is dead.” 

Cornelia inhales suddenly and Phil feels like his chest is collapsing into a black hole. He turns to look out the window, unseeing, as the void of loss consumes him again. She was his age. She was his friend. She’s dead. How can she be dead? His mind is blank and overwhelmed by so many questions all at once. Had Giles already told her parents? Would  _ they _ be expected to? Where would she be buried? How did this happen?

“She got scared and tried to run away,” Martyn says, following Phil’s gaze out the window. He breathes in and out slowly. “She didn’t get far.”

“Was it Bringers?” Phil hears himself ask. 

“No. It was a vampire,” Martyn says, “of sorts.” 

Phil nods numbly, still staring out the window. Trying to see beyond the glass and into the world beyond.

It’s snowing. The sky is a light grey blanket of clouds. The white flakes disappear as soon as they land. The ground is covered in wet, brown grass where it hasn’t turned to mud. There are barren sticks where things will bloom and grow in the spring. Everything is dead and the world is freezing over. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. Annabelle isn’t even a year older than Phil. She can’t be-

He looks down at his coffee and finds the cup to be cold beneath his fingers. How long had they been just… sitting here?

Martyn clears his throat, squares his shoulders and puts on the serious voice he used to get when their father asked for a patrol report. “Potentials are arriving at the Slayer’s house consistently. I asked about sending Cornelia over and we agreed it might be better to have multiple safehouses. He’s going to get in contact with the remainder of the Watcher’s Council in London and they’ll send funds our way so we can keep the houses.”

“They're going to send Potentials here?” Cornelia says. 

Martyn nods. “They’re still trying to figure out what exactly is going on, but they’ve been having a similar ghost-y problem. Turns out the thing we’re up against is the First Evil. The First is trying to wipe out the Slayer line so demonic activity is ramping up in Sunnydale.” Martyn sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“This area isn’t usually a magnet for demons, so it might be safer to send Potentials here.” Phil says with a nod. “And we’ll probably learn more about what we’re up against.” 

“How exactly do the Bringers fit into all this?” Cornelia asks Martyn, eyebrows drawn together.

“They’re either corrupted humans or demons, but either way they serve the First. They’re a hive mind of foot soldiers who basically do the manual labour. The First needs them because of the whole not-having-a-body thing,” Martyn says. 

They go quiet again and Phil struggles to accept all this new information. At least they have some idea what they’re up against. Maybe their research can be narrowed down enough to actually feel productive. “Was there anything else?” he asks.

Martyn hums and blinks a few times, eyes flicking over the surface of the table. “Oh, um, yeah. I asked if Giles knew anything about a Dan Howell or a Dorian Hywel. He said that Dorian was infamously homicidal and diabolical for a couple decades before disappearing about a century ago. He supposedly worked with Dracula for a spell and might have had a hand in inspiring  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ and maybe _ Frankenstein _ . So that’s some fun trivia we can ask our possible soon-to-be resident vampire about.” 

“I know there are more important things to focus on there, but that’s like… really cool if it’s true.” Cornelia murmurs sheepishly into her coffee cup. Martyn nods at the table. Phil keeps watching the snow fall to the ground and disappear. He takes a deep breath.

“What do we do now?” he asks. Martyn meets his eyes then looks between him and Cornelia.

“I guess we prepare to receive a lot of house guests,” Martyn says with a sigh. “We’ll need to clear out both houses and make up as many beds as we can. We can start on this house today and have Dan come over tonight. Assuming he isn’t evil and trying to kill us, we can make use of that vampire strength and he can help with the heavy lifting.” 

They sit and silently finish their now-cold coffee before they get to work.

~~*~~

Dan’s standing on the welcome mat looking a bit surprised to see Cornelia when she’s the one to open the door. He looks past her at Phil and his mouth twitches with a smile.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Not yet,” Cornelia says. Dan’s eyes snap back to her in confusion. She has been chosen to speak because her name isn’t on the lease, so an invitation from her wouldn’t actually work and, knowing them, the Lester boys would unintentionally extend an invitation, which would defeat the purpose of this whole thing. “Try coming in without it.”

“Is this a trick?” Dan raises an eyebrow sceptically.

“It’s to make sure you’re not tricking us,” Cornelia says with a sigh. “Look, it’s complicated and we’ll explain everything in a bit, but first we want you to try. Okay?” 

Dan huffs and rolls his eyes, but tries to take a step over the threshold. He immediately stumbles back as if he’d just walked into an invisible brick wall. His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in exaggerated shock. “Oh, no! I can’t seem to enter your house without an invitation! Who’d’ve thunk!?” He looks at Cornelia blankly. 

“You can come in, Dan,” Phil says, trying to conceal a smile. This time, when Dan moves to enter, he steps right over the threshold and into the house. 

“Great,” Martyn says, deadpan. “We’ve got a vampire in the house. Now close the door it’s bloody freezing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters left! chappy 7 is a long boi, so be prepared.


	7. Waning Crescent: (No) Rest (for the Wicked)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter spans a few months, so we’re switching it up from the usual style. At a whopping 8613 words this is the longest chapter I have ever written. Enjoy your larger-than-usual chunk of #content. The final chapter will be posted next Monday!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our main cast  
> Age - Person
> 
> 15 - Philip Lester [(AmazingPhil)](https://www.youtube.com/user/AmazingPhil)  
> 18 - [Martyn Lester](https://twitter.com/mookentooken?lang=en)  
> 211 - [Daniel Howell](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGjylN-4QCpn8XJ1uY-UOgA)  
> 24 - [Cornelia Dahlgren](https://www.youtube.com/user/corneliavideo)
> 
> New people referenced  
> Age - Person  
> 19 - [Mamrie Hart](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC0XWmgRsBL-6X-ZJ7tR3mEg)  
> 17 - [Louise Pentland](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfAEEhKikW1676DCa_0OWLA)  
> 17 - [Grace Helbig](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIiBf-JbtCazHSFqXV4JgoA)  
> 16 - [Hannah Hart](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCJQL1Fai-9GlVunsbP4x8Pg)  
> 16 - [Nataly Dawn](https://www.youtube.com/natalydawn)  
> 12 - [Tessa Violet](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCOw4v1j3QnzH7X4krQAS7fg)  
> 7 - [Dodie Clark](https://www.youtube.com/doddleoddle)  
> 7 - [Stef Sanjati](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkQJ4YUx54LB23tgOt-Tx-w)

30 January 2003 - Happy Sweet 16, Phil!

“Alright, Ms. Sanjati. Which colour do you think we should write the text in?” Phil gestures at the rainbow of glittery gel icing tubes and awaits the verdict with rapt attention. Her wide set blue eyes squint in consideration at the colours. At seven years old, Stef is the youngest Potential and is quite shy around the mostly teenage girls. 

When she showed up, she was wearing a loose shirt and jeans. Her hair was cropped short and she kept tugging at it like that might make it grow. Sensing her discomfort, Phil immediately made a fool of himself. He kept pulling funny faces when Martyn wasn’t looking and would repeat things Martyn said, but dial up the dramatic flair. She tried to quiet her giggles behind her hands when Martyn leveled them with a playful glare. 

“I told my mom that I was a girl  _ years  _ ago,” she had confided in Phil as she looked through her suitcase of bland, loose-fitting clothes. The next day, she asked Phil to take her shopping and her plain tees were donated in favor of frilly blouses. 

“Purple,” Stef says with a firm nod. She pushes at the shock of white hair that had fallen onto her forehead. It’s just about long enough to pin back. Phil makes a mental note to ask Tessa to borrow some barrettes. That girl is allergic to dull shades, so Phil knows she’ll have a rave of colourful accessories that Stef will love.

“An excellent choice.” Phil mirrors her serious nod and has her hold the tube while he squeezes and guides her little hands in the rough approximation of his name. They decide to draw a heart in a different colour above the ‘i’ just as Dan enters the kitchen. The vampire looks between them and Louise, who is arranging a mountain of food on the dining table.

“Wait. Is it your birthday again?” Dan’s face is puffy with sleep and it’s definitely  _ not _ cute when he rubs his eyes and yawns. “Wasn’t it your birthday last weekend?” 

“Do you think you can manage the heart on your own?” Phil asks Stef, who nods and waves him away without looking away from the cake. Phil starts toward Dan, then turns back to Stef, leaning in with a suspicious look around and beckoning to her. When he speaks, it’s in a hushed whisper, like he’s imparting some great secret. She leans in toward him as well, sparing a glance at Dan. “Make sure there are plenty of sprinkles. Sprinkles are my favourite.” He sends her a smile, which she returns before turning back to the cake. 

“The sun’s still up. Why are you awake this early?” Phil heads past Dan and manages to snag a mini sausage and escape before Louise can swat his hands away. 

“Mamrie and Grace were being loud.” Dan rolls his eyes. Phil takes in Dan’s rumpled appearance. Dan’s wearing Phil’s emoji pajama bottoms and Friends shirt. His curls are a fluff ball on top of his head. It’s not cute.

Phil hums. “Well, we celebrated my birthday over the weekend, but I actually turn 16 today. Plus, we had that party at Martyn’s house and we’re having this party at mine. We’ve got to have a party here or the house might feel neglected.” 

Dan blinks at him. “Houses don’t have feelings, Phil.” 

Phil shushes him and moves to pet the doorframe into the hallway. “Don’t listen to the mean vampire, Susan. He’s just mad ‘cause I didn’t ask him to help decorate the cake.”

Dan snorts. “Yeah, that’s my problem. I wanted to help with the sprinkles.” 

“They  _ are _ my favourite,” Phil says with a smile. He gestures at the ensemble Dan is wearing. “Do you not have pajamas of your own?”

Dan rolls his eyes and walks over to where Stef is adding sugar crystals to the cake. A smile spreads across his face. Stef shakes a few rainbow sprinkles on, then puts her hands on her hips and considers the cake.

“What do you think?” Stef asks, pursing her lips. “Are there enough sprinkles?”

Phil comes over to look as well. There are so many sprinkles that the name they had just drawn (which was barely legible to begin with) is completely distorted. 

Dan hums thoughtfully. “I think we need to add more around the edges.” Stef gets back to it under Dan’s watchful eye and encouraging smile. The doorbell rings.

“I’ve got it!” Grace yells as she bounds down the stairs toward the front door. She opens it to Hannah’s smiling face. The girls jump up and down excitedly then embrace with big, goofy smiles. When they separate, Grace turns to hug Tessa then they turn to run up the stairs chattering excitedly. 

“Hey, Tessa, wait.” The strawberry blonde stops and looks back at Phil. “Where’re the others?”

“Nataly is helping Corn and Mar carry tupperware,” she says, then escapes up the stairs before any more questions can delay her. Watching her disappear makes something weird pull in Phil’s chest. He’s their age, but instead of hanging out with his peers, he’s in charge of running a household and looking after a seven year old. 

When he and Martyn negotiated how they would split the Potentials, they agreed that Martyn and Cornelia would get everyone ages twelve to sixteen. It’s been working out well and Phil doesn’t have to pretend to be above his peers. Lousie is old enough to take care of herself and they help out with Stef. It’s a good system that minimises internal conflict, but it’s also incredibly isolating. It’s not safe for any of them to actually attend school, so their front as a private homeschool is useful, but Phil misses his friends and normal extracurricular activities. Patrols and magical research are just as intensive as sport and model UN, but not nearly as carefree. They’re not practicing for a hypothetical real life in the future, they’re preparing for the very real dangers that threaten their lives. 

“You gonna close the door, Philly?” Dan says right next to his ear. Phil didn’t even hear him approach, so at the sudden feel of his breath  _ right next to his ear _ he makes a very dignified and incredibly manly sound and jumps (masculinely) away. 

“Holy shhhh-” he starts, then sees Stef perched on Dan’s hip; “-shhhhall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

“I’m glad to know you’ve kept up with your revision.” Dan reaches around Phil and swings the door shut. “Just ‘cause the Watcher’s Council is footing the heating bill doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to suffer the cold.” 

“You don’t get cold,” Phil says with a raised eyebrow.

“No, but I can  _ feel _ the cold, Philip.” Stef squirms, so Dan sets her down and puts his hands on his hips. “Can’t a guy have preferences?” 

The doorbell rings and Phil peeks out the peephole to see a little girl with a suitcase. 

“Who is it?” Dan asks when Phil pulls back.

Phil shrugs, then opens the door with a smile. “Hi, I’m Phil. How can I help you?”

“Hi,” the little girl whispers. “I’m a Potential Slayer?”

“Well, hello there,” Dan, peeking over Phil’s shoulder, says in that voice people save for animals and small children. He takes a step toward the threshold and reaches out, only to jerk his hand back when the setting sun sizzles against his skin. He shakes it at the wrist, examining the rapidly healing burn on the back of his hand. 

Dodie’s eyes go wide and flick uncertainly to Phil. “He’s a vampire!” she whispers urgently to Phil.

Dan lifts his healed hand up, palm out. “Don’t worry, I don’t- well, I do bite, but not people. If I can help it.” 

Phil rolls his eyes. “He’s harmless. I’m a witch as well as a Watcher- a witcher!” Phil smiles brightly at his own brilliance. The girl giggles. “Which means I can just set him on fire or levitate a stake into him if he misbehaves.”

“You wouldn’t.” Dan narrows his eyes at Phil.

Phil shrugs. “Keep being useful, mate.” Phil gestures to the door. One of the reasons Martyn agreed to keeping Dan around was because an invitation from Dan wouldn’t allow vampires to cross the threshold. 

“This boy, so help me-” Dan lets out a long suffering sigh. “Come on in! You’re just in time for dinner.”

The girl steps over the threshold hesitantly, looking around and jumping a bit when Phil clicks the door shut behind her. Dan crouches down so that he’s eye level with the little girl, his cheeks dimpling with a smile.

“I didn’t catch your name in the rush to get you out of the cold,” Dan says, holding out his hand. “I’m Dan Howell.”

“I’m Dodie Clark,” she says with a small smile of her own. She looks at Phil, who smiles encouragingly, before taking Dan’s hand and shaking it gently. 

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Dan says, smiling widely at her.

“My brother, Martyn, will be over in a bit,” Phil says. “We’ll go over specifics when he gets here, but you’re too young for intensive training or patrols, so we won’t need to work you into the schedule.”

Dodie nods, her eyes wide as saucers. 

“Nevermind that, now,” Dan says, waving Phil away with a gentle smile at Dodie. “You’re here and it’s our job to keep you safe.”

Dan is a lot better at explaining this stuff without being too intense or overwhelming. Phil struggles to dial it back, “So, how did you find us?”  _ Get them talking, Phil, _ Cornelia had said. _ Get to know them and their stories. _

“My dad was a Watcher in London,” Dodie says quietly, her eyes falling to the floor. “Giles called and told my mum to send me here.” Phil’s heart aches empathetically. 

“My dad was a Watcher in London, too,” Phil says. Dodie’s eyes snap up to his face, searching. Phil tries to smile at her. After a moment she smiles sadly back in understanding.

“Hey, Stef?” Dan says in the direction of the kitchen. A chair scrapes across tile and little feet patter toward the hallway. 

“Yeah?” she says, her head peeking through the doorway.

“Would you be willing to let Dodie double check our sprinkle work on the cake? It never hurts to have another opinion.” 

Stef looks confused, then Dan stands and steps away from Dodie and Stef’s face lights up. She walks over toward Dodie and sticks her hand out. “Hi Dodie! I’m Stefanie, but you can call me Stef. I’m from Canada.” 

“Hi,” Dodie whispers. She loosens up a bit and she gives Stef her hand. Stef links their fingers and they’re off toward the kitchen, Stef talking excitedly about the potential of putting more icing on top of the sprinkles. 

“It’ll be good for Stef to have someone her own age to play with,” Dan says, looking fond.

“I think I should be offended,” Phil says with a pout. “I’m a great playmate.”

Dan rolls his eyes, but his dimples make an appearance. “Yes, Phil, you’re amazing. Truly the best friend a girl could ask for.” Phil responds by shoving Dan’s shoulder. Dan shoves back and soon they’re poking at each other playfully. Phil’s tongue sticks out between his teeth as they giggle.

“I’m done in the kitchen,” Louise says, eyes narrowed and lips pursed against a smile at their antics. “ Are you boys alright to watch the little ones?” 

“Of course!” Dan says, sneaking another poke at Phil’s ribs without looking. Phil squeaks. “How hard can it be?”

By the time Martyn shows up with the remaining Potentials, Dan has icing smeared on the entirety of his neck and Phil’s clothes and face are somehow covered in flour and glitter. Dodie and Stef don’t have a spot on them. They had finished the cake and were playing quietly with Dorothy’s crystals in the living room. They’re great kids and they know how to behave themselves. The 200- and 16-year-old boys on the other hand...

Dan throws some glitter at Phil. Phil pretends it is funny but not something he is going to get revenge for, then gets revenge by smearing icing on Dan’s neck. Dan retaliates by throwing an entire bag of flour at Phil, which bursts open and goes everywhere. 

But the cake makes it through unscathed.

~~*~~

14 February 2003 - Happy 25th Birthday, Cornelia!

“Have you seen Norman?” 

“Norman?”

“My raw lapis lazuli.”

“... You named the stone,” Dan says, blinking at Phil over the spellbook in his hands. “Of course you named the stone.”

“I can’t find him anywhere and he helps me focus.” Phil pouts at Dan. 

“The inanimate object has a gender too?” Dan blinks at Phil, unimpressed, before turning back to his book. “Have you tried a locator spell?” 

“Yes. Multiple times. But I can’t focus enough to make it work correctly,” Phil crosses his arms and huffs. “It keeps pointing me back here.” 

So maybe every time Phil tried to do the spell he summoned up the image of the stone in his hand, then immediately thought about how Dan had found and returned it wrapped up with a cute little lion centered on top of the box. Maybe he’s done the spell ten times and half the time it led him to his wardrobe where he pasted the wrapping paper inside the door. 

Now he’s here and he knows he should leave Dan to his research. He should get back to his own research. The Devon coven had asked them to help construct a locator spell to find Potential Slayers and the sooner they figure it out, the sooner they can protect unfound Potentials… but Dodie had asked for help making a special valentine for Tessa this morning. It was adorable and while he usually loves crafting, he felt like crying and he couldn’t figure out why. 

He washed the paste and glitter from his fingers and tried. He really tried to concentrate on the task right in front of him, but he kept finding bits of glitter on his shirt… and jeans… and socks… just everywhere and every time he sees one of those pesky shiny flecks, he remembers Dan’s cackle after he threw a handful of glitter across the kitchen. He remembers seeing Dan smile so wide that he realised that Dan had, not one, but two dimples. 

Phil shakes his head to clear it. “Can you help me find him? Please?” 

Dan mutters to himself before looking up with a sigh and a smile. “When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?” 

Spells are fun. Magic tingles across Phil’s skin and, when it’s a particularly powerful spell, it thrums through his bones. Magic beats like the pulse of the earth. Spells allow witches to tap into a vein. 

Spells with Dan are exhilarating. The moment their fingers link, Phil can feel their combined power bubbling in the air around them. He wonders what Dan feels when they make magic together. He wonders if this was how his grandma felt when she did magic. He wonders what unknown forces decided to give him magic, while depriving his mother and brother of it. He wonders if Dan’s family could do magic too. 

The locator spell they use is more specific and targeted than the one Phil used. Instead of dust on a map moving to settle where the lost object is, a glowing ball of light appears and rises into the air between them. It hovers for just a moment, before rushing out of sight and up the stairs. Dan jumps up and runs after it, Phil following close behind. It leads them to Phil’s room.

And there’s Norman, glowing faintly with the light of the locator spell, on the bedside table. Dan sighs and goes over to pick it up, tossing it at Phil. 

“Nifty spell,” Phil says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks.”

“I’ve been researching locator spells for the past week. I’ve got an arsenal of knowledge on the topic.” Dan rubs his hands over his face. “This feels like the first helpful thing I’ve done all week.”

“You help make patrols with me and the girls more fun by sneaking off then attacking us when we least expect it,” Phil says. “That’s helpful.”

“That is quite fun,” Dan agrees with a smirk, then his face drops and he sighs. “But that’s all pretend. There haven’t been any bad guys around to make it real for them.”

It’s true. The town has been quiet. The Bringers haven’t made an appearance since the night Dan and Cornelia arrived and no vampires have clawed their way out of the graveyard. They have two houses filling to the brim with Potential Slayers and no real threats to protect them from. Between Martyn, Cornelia, and Dan, they were all receiving a traditional education during the day and at night they learned how to hunt, kill, and patrol. Everything felt like it was building toward a fight against an enemy that they had yet to really see. 

Phil walks over and looks out his bedroom window. The moon is well on it’s way to full. There are dark patches in the white landscape where snowdrops have pushed through the cold ground and have started to bloom in clumps. He feels Dan’s presence beside him and is still taken aback by how comfortable and safe he feels with a vampire at his side, standing behind him in his home. He turns to look and Dan looks… ethereal in the soft moonlight. Phil’s repeated dream has been happening less frequently, but the image of Dan haloed in the full moon light flashes behind his eyes. He’s so glad that Dan is here, caring for little Stef and Dodie, mentoring him in witchcraft, sparring with the Potentials. Helping Phil.

The air in the room suddenly chills with the now familiar presence of the First Evil. Familiar, but not comfortable and not welcome. He can taste its ill intent, the desire to stab a hot dagger and twist, alongside its frustration at being incapable of causing physical harm. Phil closes his eyes, his shoulders tense as he waits for the presence to speak, dreading the verbal barbs before they come.

“I expected you to need help,” his grandmother’s voice was twisted with contempt. Phil turned to glare at the form sitting on the edge of his bed. “I didn’t expect you would be so useless that you would need help from a filthy vampire.”

“You wound me,” Dan laments with a dramatic hand to his chest and a put upon expression of hurt. “And here I thought we were beginning to be friends!” The apparition shifts into the pretty pink aristocratic apparel and stony countenance of the woman who had appeared to Dan in the cemetery. Phil shivers at the memory of that night. 

“You couldn’t stop your own line from going extinct,” Anne says with a smirk at Dan. “What makes you think you’d be able to protect a wayward group of pathetic Potentials from disappearing until they’re nothing more than fading ink in a history book.” 

“What do you want?” Phil asks. Anne’s head swivels back toward Phil and as her smile turns into a frown, its form shifts into Annabelle. Phil steps back like he’s been shoved, his shoulders connecting with the window behind him. The cold of the glass seeps through his shirt and he shivers. The figment of Annabelle stands suddenly and her hands cover her mouth and nose as her eyes well up. Phil feels like he’s going to die. 

“It was awful, Phil!” she sobs, her arms falling limply to her side. “I was so scared and I felt so alone and you said you would protect me- you said-” she inhales shakily, as if to calm herself, and Phil has a hard time remembering that this isn’t really Annabelle. She turns her head to look back at Dan, her form shifting. Cold fear stabs through Phil’s chest. 

“You complained so often about me being too loud with my friends,” Mamrie says, tucking dyed red hair behind her ear. Her upper lip lifts in a sneer, then she shifts.

“I guess you won’t have to worry about that now,” Grace says with an indignant sniff. Her usually warm brown eyes harden in disdain. “We won’t be bothering you anymore,” she says, glaring at Dan’s shocked expression. She shifts as she turns back to Phil with tears in her eyes.

“You said you would protect us,” Hannah whispers, her voice breaking. Her shining blue eyes flutter closed and she inhales slowly, steeling herself. Her eyes open with a glare. “You’re a liar.” Phil flinches.

“You’re useless,” Tessa snarls, her face twists with hatred as she takes another step toward Phil. “You can’t protect us,” The fury flaming behind her green eyes fades into the sweet smile that Tessa is almost never without. 

“You should just give up,” his mother’s sweet voice coos.

Then she’s gone.

Phil stares at the space where she was standing just a moment ago. The parade of familiar faces causes black spots to flit across his vision. 

“Phil?” Dan’s voice sounds muffled, like his ears are filled with cotton or maybe like he’s just under the surface of water because he can’t  _ breathe _ . “Phil, look at me.” 

Phil looks and Dan is standing right in front of him. Belatedly, Phil feels a cool hand on his chest, over his heart, another gripping his shoulder tightly. Dan’s eyes are warm and concerned and a little wide with fear. Phil feels dizzy and blackness is creeping in around the edges of his vision. The green and blue duvet on his bed is too bright and busy. Dan’s fingers slide down Phil’s arm and grab his hand, placing it over where Dan’s heart would be beating, pressing it down with his own hand. 

“Phil, breathe with me.” Dan starts inhaling and exhaling with exaggerated slowness. Their hands rise and fall together with Dan’s breaths. Phil closes his eyes and focuses all his attention to where his hand is being held until his breathing evens out and the sound of his blood isn’t deafening. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.” Dan’s voice sounds clearer and Phil’s head is less busy, but opening his eyes still sounds like a bad idea. 

“D-Dan, th-the girls,” Phil whispers. “If that thing could take their form then-then-”

“Help!” Cornelia’s voice carries up the stairs with the sound of the front door slamming open. “Please! Is anyone here?” Dan disappears out of the room, Phil following behind him. 

When he gets to the top of the stairs, he freezes at the sight of the scene before him. Martyn looks ghostly white and his left thigh is swollen unnaturally under his jeans. Dan is in the process of taking his weight from Cornelia who’s left eye is puffed shut and purpling above an angry, bleeding gash on her cheek.

“Jesus Christ,” Louise says from beside Phil.

“What’s going on?” Louise and Phil turn back to see Dodie rubbing her eyes and yawning sleepily. Louise rushes to kneel in front of her, blocking her view down the stairs.

“Everything’s okay, love,” Louise says, then turns to Phil. “You go help them out. I’ll keep the girls in their room, okay?” 

Phil nods, heart racing, as he makes his way slowly down the stairs. His legs feel numb, but he moves on autopilot until he gets to the living room, just in time to help Dan sit Martyn down on the sofa. Martyn whines at the change in position, then his head lolls back and his eyes half-close so just the whites are visible as he slumps. 

“Martyn?!” Cornelia’s hands flutter over his limp form, unsure of how to help, but unable to stay away.

Phil’s fingers move to Martyn’s carotid and Phil breathes deeply until his shaking hands calm enough for him to find a pulse. It’s there, faster than it should be, but present and strong. 

“He’s just unconscious. He was probably running on adrenaline and now that’s wearing off,” Phil says, talking more to himself than anyone else in the room. He’s in familiar territory and the act of speaking through a prognosis allows a level of separation between himself and his brother that tamps down the anxiety of the situation. He’s helped patch up Watchers in training before. He’s mended broken bones with his grandma. Well, he’d helped his grandma mend a baby bird’s leg once. He can do this. 

He goes over to the bookshelf and pulls out the book on healing his grandma had referenced when they helped the bird. Dan catches his eye and raises an eyebrow in question. Phil offers him the book.

“Look for a way to set a broken bone,” Phil says, then goes over to where Cornelia is standing near Martyn’s slumped form, looking lost. 

“Cornelia,” he says softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. She looks at him and the eye that isn’t swollen shut is watery. Phil has never seen her look so helpless. Half of her face is a mixture of fear and grief, the other half is a bloody, swollen mess. It takes him a second to collect himself and get back into the mindset of a medic. He clears his throat. “I need you to sit with Martyn while Dan figures out how to fix his leg and I get the stuff to clean your wounds.” 

He makes sure she sits down safely then gets the first aid kit from the pantry. When he gets back, Martyn’s eyes have opened and Cornelia is running her thumb over his knuckles. Dan quietly leaves his position in front of the open book as soon as Phil arrives. Martyn and Cornelia are occupied with each other, but Phil checks in to make sure they’re comfortable. Phil sets the kit on the coffee table and gets them both a glass of water from the kitchen. Phil pretends to look over the page Dan was reading long enough for him to justify going to help Dan gather supplies for the spell. 

Dan is kneeling at the end of Phil’s bed, hands braced on the edge of the open chest of herbs. Several bundles are stacked on the floor to Dan’s left, but he’s not moving to get any more. 

“Dan?” 

“They took eight girls out with them tonight,” Dan says. He doesn’t turn to look at Phil. He doesn’t move at all. “Tessa was only twelve years old.” 

They don’t move or speak for several seconds, then Dan gathers the pile of herbs in one hand and stands. He walks right up in front of Phil and pauses before slowly wrapping his arms around Phil’s shoulders and squeezing him to his chest. Phil’s arms come up to wrap around his waist automatically and it’s strange and a bit awkward, but also the absolute best thing. Phil grips Dan’s shirt and buries his face against Dan’s chest, pulling him as close as possible. He doesn’t cry, he’s too out of it for his emotions to find their way to the surface right now, but he can feel himself shaking. Dan keeps his grip firm and brings a hand up to rest on the back of Phil’s head. 

They manage to set Martyn’s femur with some clever magic, splint it with a curtain rod, and wrap it all up in a homemade cast made of towels and duct tape. Cornelia’s wound is cleaned and bandaged and iced. Despite looking absolutely terrible, it’s a fairly superficial cut, so while Martyn will need to get his leg more securely splinted, Cornelia won’t need to get stitches.

“It’s a birthday miracle,” Cornelia jokes, weakly. Cornelia hiccups a sob through her smile, which stretches her wounds into a grimace.

They get Martyn comfortable on the sofa after giving him as many painkillers as they safely can. Cornelia refuses her bed. She settles on the floor, her fingers tangled with Martyn’s on the edge of the sofa. Once they’re both safe and on their way to sleep, Phil goes to find Louise watching over a sleeping Stef and Dodie. 

“Dan and I are going out,” Phil says. His voice sounds off, but he doesn’t have the energy to make it sound less hollowed out than he feels. Louise motions him toward the hallway and closes the girls’ door before she says anything.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re alright because I know you’re not,” she says. “But promise me you aren’t planning to do anything stupid.”

Phil shakes his head. “We called Giles to ask what we should do. Cornelia told us where it happened. We’re going to-” Phil chokes on a gasp and swallows around the bile threatening the back of his throat. “We’re going to bury the bodies.” 

Louise calmly keeps eye contact with Phil. Phil can’t look away. Their breaths are the only sound in the dark house. Louise takes a deep breath in and breathes out through tight lips.

“Alright, then,” she says with a decisive nod. “I’ll keep watch over the house while you boys are out.”

“Thank you, Lou.” Phil manages a small smile and goes willingly when Louise opens her arms in offering.

“Stay safe,” Louise says into his shoulder. They pull back, but Louise keeps a hold of his shoulders and looks up into his eyes. “Come back.” Phil nods and meets Dan at the bottom of the stairs. They collect two shovels from the shed and head out, side by side. 

The air is still. The world is quiet. The snow keeps falling, covering and refreezing mounds of mud in the woods behind the cemetery.

Eight unmarked plots filled with potential.

~~*~~

11 April 2003 - Happy 8th Birthday, Dodie Clark! 

The air is chilly and damp with the lingering cold of early spring, but the sun warms the earth enough to have Dodie’s party outside. It’s a small but colourful gathering of the Lester houses and their wards. Nataly teaches Dodie some chords on her ukulele before leading the group in singing happy birthday. Cornelia’s soprano harmonies add a shimmering beauty to the simple tune. A polaroid camera hangs from a strap around her neck. The angry red line under Cornelia’s left eye is still shiny with freshly scarred skin and faintly yellow with faded bruising. Her smiles come more easily and she doesn’t wince when the movement stretches her skin. Stef plays with Martyn’s crutches under the supervision of Cornelia. Louise doodles on the cast that covers Martyn’s entire left leg and wraps around his hips. 

Dan joins the outdoor festivities as soon as the sun sinks behind the trees. He plugs in the fairy lights strung above the yard. The sunlight fades and their soft glow adds warmth to the peppering of stars scattered across the night sky. Dan leads Phil over to a corner of the backyard and gestures for Phil to join him on the damp ground.

“Magic lesson today is about connection,” Dan says with a wide sweep of his hands toward the ground. “Everything in the world is connected. The easiest way to get a handle on that is through plants. The earth is literally one giant mass of stuff that everything lives and grows on.” 

“You remember how the ground and willow tree weren’t scorched and burned when you visited the cemetery on Christmas?” Dan waits for Phil’s nod of acknowledgement before continuing. “That’s because I spent some time helping the ground and tree heal.” Phil feels his eyes widen as curiosity and excitement bubble in his stomach.

“Really?” 

“Yes, but that’s not exactly what we’re going to do today,” Dan says with a knowing smile. “That’s a bit more advanced and it takes more time to help things regrow than what we’re going for, which is--drumroll please--” Dan pats against his thighs until Phil rolls his eyes and joins him. “Summoning plants from one part of the world and bringing them here. It’s a bit easier because the plants already exist. We ungrow them where they are, use a bit of energy to transfer that potential, then regrow them here.”

“Simple,” Phil says with a smile and a shake of his head. Dan’s lessons always sound much simpler that they actually are. 

“Simple,” Dan agrees, matching Phil’s smile. “The biggest thing is focusing, which I know you struggle with, but between the two of us I think we can make it happen.”

“So which plant are we summoning?” 

“You worry about focusing your magic, I’ll worry about the details. After we get one plant transferred, we’ll switch jobs and see if we can get you to transfer the same kind of plant, yeah?” Dan raises his hand, fingers up, palm facing Phil. Phil gives him a high five. 

“Phiiiiwww,” Dan groans and Phil giggles. Dan keeps his hand exactly where it is, staring Phil down while trying not to laugh. He manages, but can’t stop a smile from tugging up the edges of his forced frown. 

Phil relents and places his palm against Dan’s. Their fingers interlock and they lock their sights on each other. In his periphery Phil sees Dan place his other palm flat against the dirt and Phil doesn’t hesitate to mirror him. Dan’s eye contact intensifies and Phil feels the earth under them thrum with magic. The skin of the palm against Dan’s tingles and sparks with the familiar cold burn that their magic always makes. Dan’s eyes leave his to watch the ground between them and Phil’s eyes follow just as green pokes its way up through the dirt and grows until a yellow bloom emerges and flutters into fullness. 

The moment it halts in its growth, Dan releases his hand and Phil reaches out to touch the velvet of the outer petal. “What is it?”

“A sweet pea,” Dan says with a dimpled smile. “April’s birth flower and Dodie’s favorite colour. I also thought it would be appropriate because Dodie is the sweetest of peas.” Dan makes a face as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“That sounded-”

“Let’s just pretend I didn’t say that.”

“This is a judgement free zone, Daniel. You know I would never shame your pee feti-”

“Okay!” Dan yells over Phil’s rambling. “Now it’s your turn to summon a sweet pea. Think you’re up to the task?” 

Phil chuckles to himself, but nods and puts his hand up in offering to Dan. Dan looks at his palm for a solid five seconds before he deliberately presses his own palm against it. Their fingers fold around each other and the second both of their hands connect with the dirt, Phil’s eyes slam shut with the rush of magic pulsing through their connection and the earth. He gasps and holds his breath in as he searches for something to tether himself to. It feels like he’s caught in the undertow of the magic rushing through him and he breathes shallowly through his mouth like any second he might be pulled under and never surface. 

On the edges of his awareness, Dan’s hand squeezes his a little tighter and that small change in pressure pulls him above the waves. His magic rushes into the earth, searching and sifting through miles of thawing earth around them until it finds what Phil’s looking for and unravels the flower from stem to roots. Another squeeze from Dan’s hand and Phil pulls the tidal wave back under their palms, then exhales sharply as he knits the roots and stems back together. 

He’s holding his breath when Dan breaks the connection with the earth and grabs Phil’s other hand, clasping their palms together. 

“Phil. Phil, breathe,” Dan’s voice soothes over Phil’s ears and he does his best to follow the sound of Dan taking deliberate breaths. He inhales and exhales with Dan a few times before his lungs stop screaming for oxygen. When he opens his eyes, he stops breathing again. 

In between the circle of their hands is a bouquet of sweet peas, daisies, dandelions, snowdrops, carnations, violets, honeysuckles, and lilies of the valley. Phil inhales and is immediately overwhelmed by the chaotic cross of all the flower’s scents. He looks up to see Dan already smiling at him.

“Phil!” Dodie calls out from across the yard. Phil looks over to her and his mouth drops open. Every square inch of the lawn is covered in a rainbow of flowers. Dodie herself is surrounded by sunflower stalks twice her size. She pushes her way through them with the biggest smile on her face. “Phil did you grow all these flowers for my birthday?” Phil looks at Dan, who shrugs with a grin. 

“I guess I did,” Phil says. “Happy birthday?” 

“Happy birthday, sweet pea,” Louise says, presenting a yellow flower of the same name to Dodie, who squeals and jumps up and down.

“I want to make a flower crown!” she says.

“Me too!” says Stef. She walks to Dodie’s side as carefully as her excitement allows, grabbing her hand and joining her in jumps and excited sounds.

“Well you’re in luck,” Dan says. He releases Phil’s hands and leans on Phil’s knees as he stands. “I happen to be the king of flower crowns.” 

Phil meets Louise’s similarly sceptical expression, but Dan doesn’t disappoint. The girls point to the flowers they want included in their crowns and he weaves the long stems into excessively colourful and vibrant circlets that he carefully positions on their heads. Cornelia finds a camera and takes pictures of the entire process and the finished product. The girls hug each other tight and pose, smiling for Cornelia until the camera flashes. They take the polaroid as soon as it’s done printing and run off, shaking it in the air. 

Phil watches them run off through the tiny field of flowers toward the cake table and can’t quite believe that he made it happen. His search for one yellow sweet pea turned into a flower forest. Dan’s finishes another crown, vibrant violets and proud purple primroses, that he places on top of Cornelia’s dyed-red curls. In his other hand, Dan holds a single, long-stemmed red rose, which he hides between his and Cornelia’s bodies. Cornelia takes it with a small smile and a nod at whatever Dan says, then turns to look across the yard at Martyn. 

Phil follows her path through the field of flowers until she arrives in front of Martyn. Martyn looks up from his seat and smiles broadly at her. Phil watches Cornelia’s fingers fiddle with the thorns on the stem behind her back, spinning it so the petals twirl clockwise against her spine. When she pulls it from behind her back, offering it to Martyn with a flourish and a careful curtsey. Martyn’s eyes soften as his hand bypasses the flower to clasp her hand. He pulls the flower from between her fingers, then presses his lips to her knuckles with a twinkle in his eye. 

Phil’s eyes drift away from them to see Louise with a flower crown of large, white daisies sitting on top of her dark hair. She’s recently taken to dying the tips a pastel pink and today she’s wearing a similar shade of shimmering lip gloss. 

He startles with a yip when something drops on top of his head and turns at Dan’s laugh. “You scared me!” Phil says, trying to put on a pout that is probably ruined by the way his face decides to smile instead. 

Dan has a wreath of honeysuckle nestled around his curls. It’s more leaves than flowers, but the greenery against his warm brown hair in the twinkling glow of the fairy lights makes him look like a woodland nymph and Phil’s heart is beating funny. Probably because he was startled by the flower crown that Dan plopped unceremoniously on Phil’s head. Which he is suddenly very curious to examine. Not as an excuse to stop looking at Dan’s dimples and crinkly eyes and smile, just because everyone else has really pretty flower crowns and Phil wants to know what flowers Dan decided to put in his.

Phil lifts the crown off his head to look at it and… he didn’t even know that carnations came in blue, but there they are, surrounded by little forget-me-nots and periwinkles. Yellow dandelions and the occasional leaf break up the overwhelmingly blue crown. It’s beautiful.

“It’s beautiful,” Phil says in genuine awe.

“A beautiful crown for a beautiful boy,” Dan says. When Phil looks at him there’s a glint of teasing in Dan’s eye and a smirk on his mouth and Phil just has to shove him, but he can’t stop himself from smiling. 

“You are the worst person in the world,” he mumbles halfheartedly. He plops the crown back on his head and stands tall and proud, hands on his hips, chin held high. “How do I look?” 

Dan approaches and gestures for Phil to bring his head down a bit. Phil complies and Dan takes a step closer to start readjusting the crown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He presses his lips together, which makes his dimples appear, then his tongue pokes out just over his bottom lip.

Cornelia’s camera flashes in his periphery and Phil drops his eyes to the collar of Dan’s shirt. Phil keeps his gaze fixed right there until Dan takes a step back and tilts his head, contemplating the new placement. Then he smiles and nods once. “Perfect.”

Phil smiles back.

~~*~~

1 May 2003

Dan wields the scissors with practised ease. His fingers gather, comb, and cut long blonde locks with confidence. He had even managed to adjust with the younger girls’ fidgeting earlier in the evening. 

“When did he learn to cut hair?” Martyn says, fiddling with his crutch from his seat at the kitchen table.

“He said he was the barber for a travelling circus in the 1850s,” Phil says.

“Then he cut hair and styled wigs at a strip club for a bit of the 1980s,” Cornelia adds, to Phil’s surprise and Martyn’s amusement.

“He didn’t tell me that!” Phil says.

“Why would I divulge the intimate details of how and where I honed my craft to such a gentle soul? I wouldn’t want to permanently scar such a precious angel with the gruesome reality of my-” - Dan pretends to flip long gorgeous locks over his shoulder - “-fabulous skills.” 

“Gentle soul?” Martyn says and Cornelia snorts. Phil isn’t sure who he should be offended at first.

“It doesn’t matter where he learned as long as he can give me layers that will make my curls look good,” Louise says from the chair. “You’re not giving me a dated cut, are you dear?”

“I would never!” Dan says as he snips through the hair between his fingers. “Oops.”

Phil has never seen Louise’s eyes get so wide. “Oops?! Daniel, what did you do to my hair?!” 

Dan keeps a horrified expression on his face for a good five seconds before he starts cackling at Louise’s terror. “Your face-” He cackles some more at Louise’s glare.

Louise gets her revenge by elbowing him in the ribs from her perch on the bar stool at the island. Dan’s cackle goes breathless as the air is pushed out of his lungs and he snaps his scissors together violently in her direction.

“Don’t antagonise the person holding your hair in their hands,” Dan tuts before combing out the next section. 

“You wouldn’t survive my wrath if you mucked it up, so watch yourself,” Louise shoots back, though she does hold still for the rest of her cut. 

“There.” Dan removes the towel from around Louise’s shoulders and pats the top of her head. “You’re done, gorgeous.” Louise stands up and runs her fingers through her hair, jostling volume into it and feeling the ends on her way into the living room.

“I always love the way my hair feels right after it’s cut,” she says into the mirror above the mantel, turning her head to get a better look at the subtle flowing layers. Her curls lay in loose bundles around her face and a gap-tooth smile spreads across her face. “Thank you, Dan. I was certainly due for a trim.” 

Dan claps his hands, then rubs them together as he runs his eyes over the assembled crowd. “Alright then! Who’s my next victim?” 

Phil shakes his fringe over his eyes, then flicks it back out of his face to look at Dan. He’s been thinking about cutting his hair for a while, but after coming back from London he’s been letting it grow. It felt wrong to cut it off without his mum there to call the barber. Cutting it feels like admitting that she’ll never be there to fuss over the length or the way his chosen style hides his face. But the ends he would be cutting off were the bits of hair that she would run her fingers through when he felt ill. The fringe that’s in his face and in the way more often than not holds the hair that she used to push up off his forehead when she wanted to look him in the eye. 

He knows, logically, that he’s being daft. He knows that leaving his hair long won’t bring her back. He knows that cutting it won’t make her absence any more real. But, for the past few months, cutting it has felt a lot like giving up. 

Then yesterday Giles called. Molly died when they were raiding a church run by an agent of the First Evil. She went in with a crossbow and left with her own knife in her chest. Something in Phil broke when Martyn told him. The idea of letting go hurts like a tire iron to the chest, but holding on is tearing him up inside. 

He needs to do this.

He can’t do this.

“Phil?” Dan says, gesturing to the chair with a sweeping motion and a smile. 

Phil’s hair is naturally straight and currently hangs past his chin on the sides and past his shoulders at the back. It’s not a good look. The length makes it too heavy to style, but it’s too short to pull up like he did before cutting it all off. He keeps having to push hair out of his face just to see. He looks a mess. 

Dan looks… well he looks good. Dan’s hair is naturally curly where he keeps it longer at the top and hugs flat to his head where it’s cut close at the sides. He’s found a way to make the curls sit in collected coils and sometimes he gets a little curl on his forehead that looks kind of like a pig tail, but in a really good way. 

The style of cut lengthens his face and his curls soften his features. The warm brown of his eyes match his hair and his dimples make him look so cute and inviting. The confident set of his shoulders makes their height difference seem more than the handful of centimeters Dan has on Phil. 

Phil makes the conscious decision to square his shoulders and pull his hands from his pockets. When he walks across the room to Dan he doesn’t look up through his fringe. 

He can do this. 

He settles down in the chair and Dan drapes a clean towel over his shoulders. His fingers brush against the back of Phil’s neck before he pulls Phil’s hair out from under it. Phil shivers. He breathes through the tight anxiety sparking through his chest. Cool air hits his nostrils on the way in. Lung warmed air soothes on the way out. The spray bottle hisses and a comb pulls everything together. The cold water drips from his hair to his cheek. A couple droplets land on his jeans and, after a minute, press like cold fingers on the tops of his thighs. The water bottle taps on the kitchen table and the combing collects his strands between Dan’s fingers. Phil closes his eyes.

The scissors whisper. The comb collects. The scissors snip off months of memories. The comb collects. Phil breathes. He feels the pull of the comb. He feels the tension where Dan holds his hair in place. He feels the weight lift. He feels the loss. He feels Dan’s fingers brush against his scalp before the comb pulls the strands together. Gather. Comb. Cut. 

_ Bzzzzzzzzzzhhhhhhhh _

The clippers vibrate against his head. Massage his tense temples. Tickle around his ears. Dan clicks different guards on at different times and, at the end, the pressure of warm metal against his neck as Dan presses the unguarded clippers down. Phil can feel Dan’s every exhale against his scalp and he shivers at the foreign sensation. 

Dan ruffles his fingers through it all and fine black hairs fall like snow to settle on the floor. Dan pads to the kitchen sink and runs the tap, fingers flipping frothed water to warm a washcloth. The tap turns off and in the silence Dan’s steps sound heavy against the tile. Then soft warmth runs across Phil’s neck. Dan lifts the towel from Phil’s shoulders, careful to keep the hair from falling back onto Phil. 

“Wow, Phil,” Martyn says. “I didn’t know your skull was alien-shaped.” Cornelia snorts. Phil glares at both of them. 

Phil reaches up to run his fingers over the short soft sides and long untangled top of his new haircut. He pushes it back as he moves over to look at himself in the mirror above the mantel. His freshly dyed black hair contrasts his pale skin and emphasises his every feature. From the harsh arch of his eyebrows to the cut of his cheekbones and jaw, every aspect of his face is more defined. His neck looks longer. His developing adam’s apple is more pronounced. With his hair off his forehead, his eyes stand out. They’re vibrant like a clear sky on the verge of sunset over the sea and framed by dark lashes.

He frets with the style of it, ruffling it down over his forehead then pushing it back into a quiff. The fringe feels familiar and safe, but he tells himself it is time to let go of the past and work toward the future. Maybe the future is all about exposing his forehead to the world. Because that doesn’t sound weird. Phil feels Dan’s presence behind him, but doesn’t see him in the mirror. It’s a bit disorienting. 

“What do you think?” Phil fiddles with his fringe, then pushes it back again. Dan hums like he’s thinking.

“I think I did a damn good job,” he says. Phil sends an elbow back into his ribs, earning a huffed groan in his ear. Phil smirks at himself in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resources:  
> [Sonnet 18](http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet/18)  
> [Birth month flowers](https://www.almanac.com/content/birth-month-flowers-and-their-meanings)


	8. New Moon: New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it. 
> 
> I'm so proud of this work and I'm so incredibly thankful to everyone who helped make this work the best it could possibly be.
> 
> Cheers to the amazing [Asher](https://nebulaearecool.tumblr.com/post/628585373502750720/heres-an-alternate-version-of-my-vampire-art-made) whose art literally inspired me to write this fic. 
> 
> Thank you [Ky](http://enby-lego-dinosaur.tumblr.com), [Simon](https://mobile.twitter.com/SimonAndrs), [Manasi](http://holyjesusonatricycle.tumblr.com), [Beth](http://ilikestopwatches.tumblr.com), and my mother for all your hard work and patience. 
> 
> And if you haven't yet, you should totally watch [this video<3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYPF0hgPjzY) about why you should watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. <3
> 
> Now please enjoy the final chapter of this story...

31 May 2003

_Phil’s footsteps echo as he makes his way through the empty space. He reaches out to find a wall in the darkness, hoping to steady his feet as he wanders blindly. His hand brushes against rough concrete, worn by wind and rain. His fingers find a deep divot in the artificial stone and suddenly the walls are glowing, covered in white symbols that are simple in construction. They pulse weakly as he traces one symbol with his fingertips. The light feels cool and softer than velvet as the symbols dim._

_He lifts his eyes to look for a way out. He’s in an enclosed hallway. The glowing symbols fade with his calming heartbeat. At the end of the hall, brilliant white light blankets the packed dirt in front of an open doorway. He steps toward it across smooth, bare ground. His fingers trace the symbols on the wall as they fade into darkness._

_He takes a step out into a graveyard lit by stars. Some tombstones crumble with age and others glint under the sparse light in their newness. The sound of his feet is muffled by overgrown grass. Crickets sing. An owl hoots. There’s a squirrel in a tophat that lifts a monocle to his eye. A breeze sings through the leaves and Phil turns to find himself on the banks of a lake. Wind whispers across the water and breathes cool air against his face, but the surface is still. It reflects everything surrounding it. Branches of willow trees kiss the water’s edge, pine trees stand tall and straight, and stars blink against the void. The new moon hangs black, almost invisible, with just the echo of light. It hangs low and large in the sky, about to settle behind the horizon for the night._

_The milky way stretches across the sky like a bright fog, cutting the black backdrop behind twinkling stars, shining brighter without competition. The lake twinkles with their reflections as Phil’s eyes move across its crystalline surface until they’re caught by a fluttering shadow on the opposite bank._

_ Dan is standing tall and Phil can make out every detail of him as if he were standing just inches away. His clothing is old, but shows no signs of age or wear. His face is an enthralling mix of soft, delicate features. His subtle jawline, free of tension below high cheekbones that accent the space from nose to ears. Phil’s eyes track over the smooth skin that hides potential dimples, the dark freckles across his cheeks, the faint constellations across the bridge of his nose.  _

_ His head is haloed by soft, chocolate curls. He’s surrounded by the light of the stars scattered above and below him. In his hand is a white rose, glowing against the darkness of the night. He raises it up, but as it comes before his face, the petals begin to fall from the stem and float away like they are lighter than a dandelion’s seeds. Phil’s eyes follow their path until they disappear into the darkness of night surrounding him. _

_ His eyes make their way back to find the man looking at him. A smile pulls those dimples into his cheeks and lines around his eyes. He’s beautiful and Phil wants so badly to reach out.  _

_ Cool fingers wrap around his wrist. Dan stands directly in front of him, his eye colour shifting between chocolate and dandelion until it settles into a ruddy brown that reflects the stars scattered across the sky and lake. Phil breathes and he doesn’t feel afraid. The cold hand travels down past Phil’s wrist and into his palm, fingers pressing open then slotting into place. He looks down to see where their hands are linked. It feels safe. He feels safe. _

_ When he tries to lift his eyes from the spot where they’re intertwined, his vision fades in a soft white light that warms his core. He shuts his eyes and exhales… _

He gasps as he wakes, heat flooding through his veins. His nerves alight and he jumps out of bed, falling to the floor in a tangle of sheets. He struggles against them until they tear and stumbles to his feet toward the door. He grasps the handle and hears the metal creak. He pulls and wood splinters as the door flies off its hinges and against his dresser, scattering his books across the floor with the sound of fluttering paper that’s too loud. He trips past the door frame toward the stairs, plaster crumbles and dust flies into the air before he’s thumping his way out onto the lawn. His bare feet hit the warm ground. The grass is half wet with what will be morning dew and he gasps in lungfuls of clean, summer air with his eyes squeezed shut. 

The heat under his skin sparks then relaxes into a simmer. His body feels like it’s humming with power that’s slowly settling into his bones. He opens his eyes and lifts them to the night sky. The stars twinkle, bright and sharp against the black expanse. There is no moon on the horizon, but a gust of wind wafts the subtle scent of roses toward him. 

When he looks down, the front yard is covered in thorny bushes that grow taller and tangle together. They climb their way up through the porch railing and encroach on the pavement leading to the house. Scattered among the deep green leaves, black in the moonless night, are spots of white that shine under the stars. Phil reaches out to one of them and feels the satin soft petals as one blooms from a bud into an open, beautiful rose. It folds open and stops at the peak of its beauty. Phil reaches behind it and leans closer, pulling the subtle sweet scent into his lungs. 

“Phil?” Dan stands in the doorway wearing Phil’s bright blue cookie monster pajama bottoms and no shirt, which is incredibly distracting. “What the fuck did you do with the door?” Phil looks at where the solid oak door was attached to a solid oak frame. The door is nowhere to be seen and the frame is splintered where the hinges used to be. Then Phil gets distracted by Dan’s bare chest all over again.

“Erm,” Phil says, eloquently. 

“Phil,” Dan says with wide eyes, looking around Phil. “What the fuck did you do to the front lawn?” Phil looks around at the solid hedge of roses that are just about as tall as he is, which is frankly ridiculous and probably a bit excessive, but it’s not like he made the conscious decision to summon them. A breeze bustles around him and he blinks. 

“They smell nice,” Phil says because they do. Phil tears his eyes away from Dan’s naked torso and tries to remember Dan’s question. He examines the previous few minutes of his life. “I broke my bedroom door too, I think.” 

“What the actual fuck, Phil.” 

  
  


“Well I woke up and...” Phil pauses. Thinks. Shrugs. “Not sure what happened, actually,” he mumbles.

Dan doesn’t have any hair on his chest, but he runs his hands through the hair on his head. It’s much fluffier than Phil has ever seen it. Apparently taming curls takes a bit more work than Phil thought. He still wants to touch it. 

“Can I touch your hair?” Phil asks because his brain to mouth filter is apparently broken and Dan’s just standing there half-naked, which isn’t helpful to Phil’s current mental state. Then he realises that might have been a bit rude. “Please?” 

Dan’s face is a study in shock. An ode to shock? Is Phil feeling artsy or poetic? Phil gets distracted by all of Dan’s exposed skin again.

There’s a crash from inside the house and Dan disappears to investigate. Phil follows, gaining on Dan, which is new and weird and very cool. They arrive in the kitchen where Louise is looking at a broken glass on the floor like it offended her. Phil runs into Dan when he stops suddenly just inside the kitchen, which is like running into a brick wall, but softer. Dan’s back is also naked. There are several dark freckles across his skin, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense because he hasn’t seen the sun for a couple of centuries. 

“What happened?” Dan asks at the same time Phil says, “How freckles?” which is probably not helpful, but Phil can’t seem to stop his mouth from making words happen. Louise looks at Phil like he’s grown an extra head.

“Ignore him. He’s not making sense right now,” Dan says. Which... rude. “What happened?”

“I woke up and wanted to get a glass of water, because I was thirsty, then-” Louise looks down at the pieces of glass around her feet; “-well, I thought I saw a spider and I must have gripped the glass a bit too tightly.” 

“At least you didn’t break the door,” Dan mutters. Which... again, rude. “Stay still-”

“Stencil.” 

Dan glares at Phil. “I’ll get the broom and dustpan so Phil can clean up.”

Phil huffs, but doesn’t argue. Then the phone is ringing in the living room, so Phil goes to pick up the receiver. 

“Lester residence, Phil speaking.” 

“Hi Phil, it’s Martyn. Did I wake you?” 

“Surprisingly, no,” Phil says. There’s a tinkle of glass coming from the kitchen where Dan is, presumably, sweeping up. “I woke up a bit ago and made roses happen.” 

Martyn is quiet for a good minute. “What?”

“I also broke a couple doors. Will the Watcher’s council help pay to replace them?” 

Martyn is quiet for a little less than a minute. “Probably?”

“That’s good,” Phil says. His brain is starting to function again now that Dan’s nipples are out of sight. “Anyway, what’s got you up at this hour?” 

“Right, erm.” There’s some scuffling sounds on the line as Martyn readjusts the receiver. “Well, Cornelia and I were up, erm…” he clears his throat; “talking, but then she got really strong all of a sudden like she’d been activated as the next Slayer. We both freaked out for a bit, then I called Giles and, well… she did get activated.”

“Wait, the Slayer died?”

“No, Faith and Buffy are still alive, but Buffy and her witch friend, Willow, did some kind of spell that activated all the Potential Slayers, so I guess I wanted to call and make sure everyone staying with you was- wait, did you say you broke a door?”

“Technically two doors. Maybe a wall. Louise broke a glass.” 

“That’s not possible,” Martyn says.

“Dan’s cleaning up the glass in the kitchen right now.”

“Phil,” Martyn says. “How exactly did you break the doors?”

“Oh, that’s a weird story,” Phil says, laughing hollowly and attempting to tamp down the mental image of Dan standing nakedly at the splintered threshold. “I kinda… pulled the hinges off the door frame?”

Martyn is quiet for long enough this time that Phil checks to make sure the call is still connected. 

“Phil,” Martyn says, then pauses again. “I think you were a Potential Slayer.” 

Phil blinks and hears glass fall into the metal bin in the kitchen. Louise and Dan are talking to each other about… something. They’re not whispering, but Phil can’t catch the words. 

“That’s not possible.”

Martyn is speaking over the phone. Something about gender and precedent and change. The words flitter around his eardrums like squeaky mosquitoes. The conversation in the kitchen has stopped. The house is quiet save the occasional creak of settling. The wind whispers against the windows, rustling the forest of fresh leaves in the front garden. 

A cool palm settles on his shoulder and Phil turns toward it to see Dan looking at him with a question in his eyes. 

Phil holds the phone out to Dan. “Martyn.” 

Dan takes the phone with one eyebrow arched in confused amusement and, based on Dan’s half of the conversation, they’re discussing the activation of all Potential Slayers. Based on the way Dan gives Phil a once-over, Martyn’s just at the bit where Phil is now a Slayer. 

Phil. A Slayer. 

How Slayers are chosen is a bit foggy. When Phil asked his dad about it, he waved his hand and muttered something about magic. When he asked his grandma, she wiggled her fingers and said magic in a spooky way. No one took time out of their day to ask why there was only one Slayer at a time; why it was always a girl; how the Slayer came into existence. In the past, the likelihood of Phil being chosen would be slim, even with the dwindling number of Potentials. It didn’t seem like a relevant line of study to Phil until literal seconds ago. 

Now it’s really fucking relevant and Phil is adrift in the sea of his ignorance. Little Stef is a trans girl and a Potential, so is it really such a stretch that Phil is one as well? Sure, all chosen Slayers up to this point were women, but for every Slayer chosen there are thousands of Potential Slayers roaming about living normal human lives. It makes sense that some of them would have a queer relationship with their gender. There might even have been a trans Slayer in the past, but the Watchers writing the records didn’t see the details of their identity as important to their career as the Slayer. 

Phil’s eyes focus back on the room around him. Dan managed to find himself a shirt, which is a blessing for Phil’s ability to form complete sentences. Or just words in general. Though comprehending words still seems to be a problem in light of Martyn’s revelation and the subsequent malfunction of Phil’s brain-cogs. Dan is struggling to pull on a black v neck without dislodging the phone from his ear. It’s causing muscles to move just under Dan’s skin in an increasingly distracting manner and Phil’s mouth stops producing saliva. 

He attempts to swallow, but that’s not working anymore because Dan has gotten his shirt over his shoulders and the phone and he’s pulling it down over his torso and, like… it’s probably really weird that Phil is struggling to deal with Dan  _ putting clothes on _ when he is rendered just as speechless by Dan being partially nude. Can he blame his hormones? He wants to blame his hormones. 

Dan must see something in Phil’s face that he interprets as a crisis, because he comes over and grabs Phil’s head, plopping it on his shoulder and fiddling with his hair while he continues to talk to Martyn.

The sounds wash over Phil, curving the sharp edges of his confusion. Dan’s voice is nice. He’s talking low and slow, the way he does when he’s telling a secret or asking tarot cards a question. It settles Phil; makes him feel better. Phil lets the consonants chip at his mental lethargy and the vowels draw out any lingering uncertainty until he starts to comprehend what Dan is saying.

“Phil?” Dan says after hanging up with Martyn. “You alright there, bub?” 

Phil hums and wraps his arms around Dan’s clothed waist, nuzzling his way toward Dan’s neck. He stops before he gets to the bare skin beyond the collar of his shirt, but when he sighs, Dan shivers. 

“Phil,” Dan says, gently tugging on his hair until Phil lifts his head enough for their eyes to meet. “Would you please talk to me?” They’re pressed up against each other, their faces centimetres apart. There’s nothing strange or new about their proximity. They’ve always been prone to physical affection, a side effect of seeing each other through tragedy. 

But even though there’s nothing strange or new about their proximity, Phil’s senses are heightened and his body is humming with the magical strength of a Slayer. Dan’s breath caresses Phil’s cheeks and it takes no conscious effort to close the space between them. 

It’s nothing salacious. A lingering press of lips that connects the final parts of their bodies together. The softest touch of the softest skin that sends a pulse of magic on a loop through their bodies, like completing a circle or combining energy for a difficult spell. Dan’s hand is still in his hair. Phil’s arms are still around his waist. Their chests are pressed together.

Dan doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t lean in. When Phil breaks the connection between their lips and opens his eyes, Dan’s are closed a moment longer and when he opens them there is neither disgust nor desire swirling there. 

Phil’s stomach sinks and he lets his chin fall to his own chest. He steps away, letting his hands fall to his sides and Dan’s hand leaves his hair. 

“Sorry,” he says. He feels like he’s floating, untethered in the space surrounding them. 

“Phil, no,” Dan says. His voice is gentle, almost pitying, and Phil can’t stand it. It feels like rejection. Phil wraps his arms around his own waist and doesn’t look up. “Phil, it’s not- don’t apologise. I understand.” 

“But you don’t feel the same,” Phil says, resigned. 

“It’s not that,” Dan says. Phil finds the courage to look up, but Dan doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s staring off into the space beyond Phil, unfocused. Thinking. 

“What is it, then?” Phil needs to know. Desperately. “If you feel the same, then why would- why wouldn’t you-”

“You’re just a bit…” Dan waves his fingers through the air, clearing spider webs from his mind; “human.” 

“You’ve never been with a human?” Phil says sceptically. He’s never been able to arch a single eyebrow, but he feels his face make an attempt. 

“No, I have,” Dan says, like it’s unimportant. Like it’s a given. “Several of them.” Phil stares at him and feels frustration clawing its way up his throat.

“So what’s the problem?” Phil grinds out. He feels desperate, exasperated by a rejection that isn’t quite a rejection.

“I’ve been around for over two hundred years,” Dan says with a wry smile. “You’re too young for me.” He’s meeting Phil’s eyes again, at least. If Phil has to suffer through being told he’s not good enough, he’d rather it happen with eye contact. 

“Aren’t most people?” Phil bites out.

“There’s also a bit of a power imbalance between us, Phil,” Dan says, not unkindly. 

Phil squints at him, unimpressed. Then pushes him hard enough to leave a Dan-shaped dent in the plaster behind him. Before Dan’s body bounces back, Phil is there, pushing Dan up the wall with his fists tangled in Dan’s shirt.

“I seem to be stronger than you think.”

Dan’s hands come up to cover Phil’s wrists, but he doesn’t try to push him off. He places them there to rest with a smile on his face that’s somewhere between sad and fond. Phil lowers Dan until his feet touch the floor, feeling a bit foolish for his outburst. 

“Even before you were activated I couldn’t overpower you, Phil. Not for long,” Dan says, eyes gentle. “That’s not the imbalance I’m concerned with.” 

“Why are you talking to me like a child?” Phil says, gnawing on his frustration. “I’m not a child.”

“No,” Dan says. “You’re not. I’m not trying to talk down to you.” Dan sighs and runs his hands over Phil’s shoulders soothingly. “I’ve been around for a very long time. I’ve had a lot more experiences than you have. I’m not saying you’re inexperienced. I’m saying that you haven’t had enough experiences. Give yourself a few years. Take some time to enjoy your life.”

“'Cause life has been a breeze so far-”

“You’ve had a pretty shit year, but things will get better,” Dan says, firmly; his certainty confrontational. Then his expression softens. “I’ve got all the time in the world and I’m not going anywhere.” Dan’s smile is placating and sad. “I’ll always be here for you, Phil. I’ll help you however I can, but I’m not what you need right now. Not like this.” 

“So what, exactly, do I need right now?”

“A friend,” Dan answers immediately. “A mentor. A shoulder to lean on when things seem impossible to face on your own.” 

Phil swallows that down like an unchewed chunk of crisps. He breathes through the initial sting and lets it fade into the realisation that Dan isn’t leaving or withdrawing. Dan’s hands are still on Phil’s shoulders. When Phil looks at him, Dan meets his gaze. His eyes are such a nice shade of brown. 

Phil nods sullenly. Dan smiles and uses his grip to pull Phil into a bone crushing hug. Phil settles his cheek against Dan's shoulder and winds his arms up and around Dan's neck. He collapses against Dan, letting his legs buckle under his own weight. Dan's back thumps back into the wall with an  _ oof _ and he struggles to keep Phil from sliding to the floor.

“Phil,” Dan laughs, voice a bit strained. “You're too bloody heavy. Hold yourself up.” 

“Can't,” Phil mumbles against Dan's chest, where he's now taken up residence. “I don't have legs.” 

“Louise! Help!” Dan calls toward the house in general. “Phil's about to be maimed by a vampire!” 

“Hush, children,” Louise yells, just as loudly as Dan. “If you're planning to maim him either make it bloodless or take it outside. I'm too tired to clean up after you tonight.” 

“Great idea,” Dan says, too quietly and with a smile in his voice that makes Phil suspicious enough to think about holding himself up again. Before he can make that call, Dan whisks him off his feet and is running out the ruined front door, past their new rose garden, and out of town. Phil screams and giggles, actually giggles, while beating his fists against Dan's chest in a bid to get away. 

When they get to a grassy field, Dan readjusts his hold and throws Phil, who screeches at the sudden weightlessness before splashing into the middle of a pond. He comes up sputtering and shivering. 

“You rat!” Phil yells from where he's bobbing. “It's bloody freezing! ” 

“You're fine, you spork,” Dan says, then chuckles merrily. “I'm so glad you're a Slayer. You're much more durable now.” 

“You are the worst person in the world,” Phil says, then paddles his way over to the edge of the pond, pulling himself out of the water and squelching over to shiver in front of Dan. “Bad,” Phil says with a finger pointed in Dan's face. “Bad friend.”

“Best friend,” Dan says with a cheeky grin. “I am going to  _ really _ enjoy throwing you around more.” 

Phil pouts for a minute, then gets an amazing idea. He grabs the front of Dan's shirt and smiles when comprehension crosses over Dan's face. Phil ignores his protests and bats away his hands before pulling him to the edge and tossing him into the water. 

When Dan emerges, he glares at Phil through his waterlogged fringe. Phil laughs while Dan pulls himself out of the water, dripping like a-

“Drowned rat!” Phil cackles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Dan prequel and a Phil sequel percolating atm, so if you’re sad that this is the end… there’s more to come! Don’t you dare hold me to a schedule on that tho, cause I want to get most of it written before I post anything and I’ve only just dipped my toe into the Dan prequel. 
> 
> Did you know there was a gay club scene in 18th century London? I didn’t either, but you learn new things every day!
> 
> Resources:  
> [White rose meaning](https://www.proflowers.com/blog/rose-color-meanings)
> 
> Things I googled for this chapter:  
> Roses bloom in May (yes or early June)

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting a new chapter every Monday.


End file.
